


SHIELD Origins: Hawkeye Part I

by Aetherschreiber



Series: Marvel in the Aether [5]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, BAMF Phil Coulson, Carson's Carnival of Traveling Wonders, Circus, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Gen, How Barton Met Coulson, Murder Mystery, Mystery, Phil Coulson Has the Patience of a Saint, SHIELD, no ship but friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-01
Updated: 2016-04-01
Packaged: 2018-05-30 15:39:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6430390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aetherschreiber/pseuds/Aetherschreiber
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before he was an Avenger, before he was a SHIELD Agent, seventeen-year-old Clint Barton performed as Hawkeye in Carson's Carnival of Traveling Wonders. But when SHIELD Agent Phil Coulson turns up on the trail of some dangerous contraband, Clint Barton's life will crumble all around him. Whatever is a grand-master archer to do?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

_October 31st, 1986_   
_Dighton, Kansas_

Halloween at Carson's Carnival of Traveling Wonders was always something special. The performances always had a little bit of extra flair and the side shows and game booths always had candy to spare for the kids. No matter where the Carnival was, there was always a crowd of kids running around in home-made Halloween costumes on a sugar high, having fun, their responsible adults frantically chasing after them.

This was Clint's fifth Halloween with the carnival and he had always looked forward to it as the highlight of the year. His first year, when he was just ten years old, the rest of the carnies had treated him like the King of Halloween, showering him with treats and telling ghost stories late into the night over cup after cup of hot cider. And then, of course, there had been the private show the adults had put on for the carnie kids after they had closed to the public for the night. That night had been the happiest he could ever remember being. And though he was performing now, every time he saw a wide smile on a ten-year-old face at a Halloween show, he couldn't help but remember that.

The last show of the night had finished almost an hour ago. The side shows were winding down and the games were beginning to close up shop. But Clint wasn't done yet. Presently, Clint was gallivanting through the tents and booths with a trail of young kids, none of them older than about nine, chasing after him. He darted them in and out of the shadows, urging them to be sure to keep up, and stopped behind the fortune-teller's booth. He gathered the kids in close and spoke quietly.

"Here's where we need to be extra careful," he said to them, as seriously as he could muster, "Old Lady Clementine talks to the ghosts and spirits and Halloween is always when their voices are strongest. Sometimes, they even materialize right out of her crystal ball and haunt the carnival until dawn. And there's even a story about how one kid when missing from her tent, once, years ago, never to be heard from again."

The kids all gave an enthralled gasp and huddled in a little tighter.

"Follow me, close, and stay quiet," Clint whispered to them, pulling an arrow with a little bit of tinsel in the fletching out of the quiver on his back and setting it on the string of his bow, "I think the ghost is nearby. And I only have the one magic arrow to use."

"What if you miss?!" one little girl exclaimed in horror.

"Silly, he's the Amazing Hawkeye," said another, slightly older boy in response, "didn't you see the show? He never misses!"

"Shh!" another of the kids hissed.

Clint led the way slowly, creeping toward a lantern that he could see only a little ways away.

"There!" Clint said, pointing to the lantern, "did you see that? How that flame flickered funny? That's where the ghost is. It's in the fire. I have to shoot the flame with the magic arrow and put it out or it'll set the whole carnival on fire."

"Oh no!" said one kid.

"Quick!" exclaimed another.

Silently, Clint motioned for the kids to stay in the shadow of the fortune-teller's tent and crept toward the lantern, drawing back on his bowstring and taking aim at the flicking flame.

_Breathe... and... release._

The arrow sprung from Clint's bow and the flickering lights of the carnival glinted off the tinsel in the fletching as it riffled and flew unerringly toward the point where the lantern flame joined to the wick. But before it could reach its mark, another arrow shot across its path, striking it in the shaft and sending it tumbling off to the side to land harmlessly in the gravel.

"All right, enough's enough, kids," the voice of Buck Chisholm came from the same placed as the arrow that thwarted Clint's own, "time to find your parents. The carnival's closing up for the night."

"Awww," the kids all chorused.

"But what about the ghost in the lantern?" the youngest of the kids asked. "Now the Hawkeye can't shoot it!"

"You kids let ol' Trick Shot help out the Hawkeye, from here," Buck answered them, shepherding them toward the main path through the carnival and toward a waiting group of parents, "this ghost is too much for a bunch of junior ghost-hunters. Best leave it to the pros, now. G'won!"

Disappointed, the kids all shuffled off down the path, away from the two archers.

"C'mon, Buck, I had the shot," Clint complained.

"Yeah, I know ya did, kiddo," Buck replied, "after all I taught you everything ya know. But someone had to break up your little game. I know ya like Halloween, Clint, but we're closin' up for the night and it wouldn't do for us carnies to get a rap for kidnapping."

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Clint said, retrieving his arrow and flexing the shaft to test it before returning it to his quiver, "sucks, though. That was probably the most excitement those Kansas hick kids have had in years."

"That's why Carson chooses the small towns," Buck said, "always fun to shake 'em up a bit. We still got two weeks here and shows tomorrow morning, though. So ya best get some shut-eye."

"Yeah, all right," Clint groused, "I'm not a little kid any more."

"Ya never were," Buck said with a chuckle.

"You seen Barney?"

"Nah, not since the show," Buck replied, "he probably went back to your trailer to pout, like he always does."

"He wouldn't pout if Jacques let him be in an act instead of being a stage hand, you know."

"Ain't up to me, kiddo," Buck said, as he began to walk away, tossing a wave over his shoulder.

Clint sighed and shook his head, still wearing a grin. He began to make his way back to the tiny, run-down old trailer that he shared with his brother Barney as the carnival lights began to go out, one by one. The place was already getting quiet and dark and Clint let out a yawn, admitting to himself that he was pretty tired following the last show of the night. And it was getting colder out. In a couple more weeks, they would pack up the carnival and travel down to Texas to play a few spots where it was warmer over the winter.

Clint was passing the tent that was housing the show monkeys when he spotted a crack of flickering light beneath the tent flap. It caught his eye because the monkey tent was supposed to be dark after the monkeys had been returned there following the show, so seeing light after the whole carnival had closed altogether was strange.

Curious, he got closer. As he did he began to hear voices. One he recognized immediately as that of Jacques Duquesne, his own mentor, who used the stage name of Swordsman. It took him a moment to recognize the other voices as those of some of the stage hands and camp followers, most of whom were people Clint tended to avoid. He moved quietly toward the tent entrance, listening as he went.

"C'mon, Duquesne," said one of the men, "you gotta convince Carson to take this show to some bigger cities. We're not making shit off these rural rubes."

"Hey, I'm trying," said Jacques, "but you know how he likes all that bull about bringing smiles to folks who don't get to have fun. Something's gotta happen to convince him there's more bank to be made near the cities."

"Well, maybe that's on us," said one of the stage hands.

"How do you mean?" asked another.

"If we step up our own efforts, maybe we can convince him," said the first. Clint was just now reaching the tent flap and managed to position his face near the narrow opening so he could just see inside.

"You sayin' we should up our take?" asked another man, one that Clint recognized as the guy that ran the booth where a customer paid to try and knock over a stack of bottles.

"Yeah," said the stage hand, "if Carson sees less and less money coming into the carnival from these rubes, maybe he'll take us where there's a little more scratch."

Clint felt a pit in bottom of his stomach. He couldn't have heard that right. There was no way that Jacques would help these pinheads steal from Carson and the rest of the carnival. There had to be some mistake. Surely, Jacques would put an end to this right here and now.

To Clint's horror, that was not what happened.

"Not a bad idea," Jacques said thoughtfully, rubbing a thumb over his goatee, "we get a larger take right now and then get the opportunity to make a more later. All right, get the word out to the others. We'll ramp it up slow over the next couple weeks. Now get lost, all of you. I gotta count it up for the shares."

Clint had just enough time to scramble back around the corner of the tent and into the shadows before the group of men streamed out of the tent and dispersed, silently, leaving Jacques on his own. A moment later, Clint heard the chime of metal on metal and the shuffling of paper that could only be the handling of money. He gave himself a moment, still trying to clear the feeling that he had been punched in the gut. Just as silent as he had been, he made for the tent flap and entered to see Jacques sitting on one crate and shifting around stacks of money, his back to the tent flap.

"C'mon, Rob," said Jacques, "we've been through this, I don't skim off the top before making the shares and you know-"

Jacques stopped short as he turned around and spotted Clint standing inside the entry way. The Swordsman gave a regretful, resigned sigh and looked away, shaking his head.

"Why?" was the only thing that Clint could force past his throat.

"Clint," Jacques said with a sigh, "it's just business. We're all just making our own way."

"You're stealing from Carson!" Clint shot back. "From all of the rest of us! How could you?"

"Look, Clint," Jacques said, standing up, "my act doesn't pay like it used to, you know that. And the stage hands and the booth guys, they don't make as much as the acts. If it wasn't for this, those guys would have left a long time ago and there wouldn't _be_ a Carson's Carnival of Traveling Wonders. A carnival don't run on just the trapeze and high wire guys."

"This is wrong, Jacques," Clint said with a shake of his head, "you should have talked to Carson, if the guys all thought they weren't making enough. You know that he thinks of us like family. He'd listen."

Jacques approached Clint slowly and set his hands on the teen's shoulders. "That's not how things are done. We're carnies and that means that we're self-sufficient. Carnies who need to go begging aren't worth having around. You're old enough to understand, now. Barney has been getting a cut for over a year. I see no reason not to cut you in."

"No!" Clint shouted, pulling away. "You're just stealing and I won't help you! I'm going to find Carson." He moved toward the tent flap to exit.

Jacques was in motion in an instant, Grabbing Clint by the arm. "No, Clint, you're not!" he said, raising his voice a little.

"Let go of me!" Clint exclaimed trying to shake his arm loose but finding the grip too strong.

"No, kid, I'm not going to let you mess this up for me!"

Clint felt the familiar taste of adrenaline rising in his nose and throat. There was a look in Jacques' eyes that he had never seen before and he hated the sight of it. He hated the situation. He hated Jacques. His breath starting to catch in his throat, Clint lashed out with the fist that was holding his bow, catching Jacques square in the nose, sending him reeling back and trying to staunch a flow of blood.

The look Jacques was giving him terrified the teen; rage, intent, and a determination not to be denied. Clint stumbled out of the tent and ran. He could hear Jacques hot on his heels. He poured on speed when he heard the ring of metal that heralded the Swordsman drawing his blade.

"Get back here, you ungrateful little bastard!" Jacques shouted at him.

The chase took them into the carnival grounds, away from the trailers where everyone else was settling in for the night. Clint made for the one tent where he knew there were obstacles that he could use to stay away from the raging Swordsman; the main show tent.

Bursting through the flap and into the back-stage area, Clint weaved through the stacks of crates and the show props, avoiding Jacques' sword swings. He heard the blade smash against wooden boxes and some of the metal stanchions holding up the tent. Several racks of props also went tumbling. Clint charged on, making for the stage area and the main ring. Behind him, he heard the fabric of the entryway tent flap rip.

Clint dove for the ladder to the high-wire and began climbing up to the platform. As his foot cleared a rung, he heard the clang of metal-on-metal as Jacques' sword narrowly missed him. A moment later and Clint heard Jacques climbing the ladder after him. He made it to the platform and started out on to the high wire, Jacques' hand just narrowly missing his ankle. Half way out onto the wire, well out of Jacques' reach, he stopped and pulled an arrow from his quiver, pointing it at Jacques just as the Swordsman righted himself on the platform.

"You can't reach me here," Clint said to him, still aiming his arrow, "you never could do the high wire."

Jacques gave a smirk and a shrug, throwing his arms wide for a moment, sword flashing in what little light there was. "Clint, Clint, Clint," he said as if speaking to a child, shaking his head, "I don't need to."

With a flick of his wrist, Jacques' sword whistled through the air and he cut downwards in front of him. The high wire beneath Clint's feet snapped and fell away, sending the archer tumbling toward the ground.

Clint didn't remember hitting.

* * *

The world swam back into focus. Everything hurt. Clint's surroundings were too white, too bright, and smelled of antiseptic. There was an annoying beeping off to his side somewhere and a voice repeating his name.

"C'mon, kiddo, open your eyes, already."

Clint recognized the voice; Buck. Clint forced his eyes to focus on the face near him and gave a groan of recognition.

"Wha' happened to me?" Clint asked.

"Took a tumble off the high wire," Buck answered, "it was cut. Didn't take us long to figure out by who, seeing as the whole place heard your scream. Barney found you and I saw Jacques running from the big top." He reached over and pressed a button for a nurse.

"They catch him?" Clint asked.

Buck shook his head. "Naw, he's gone," he said, "Barney was yelling for help somthin' fierce. You were so messed up, kid... we sorta focused on the higher priority."

A nurse swept into the room just then, Barney hot on her heels. Silently, Barney took a spot next to Buck and let the nurse fill Clint in on what had happened.

Both of Clint's legs had been broken in the fall and were going to take several weeks to heal. Additionally, the doctors wanted to monitor for a possible concussion, since there had been a substantial wound to the back of his head and he had been unconscious for nearly a day.

Silence reigned in the room for over a minute after the nurse left. Clint stared at the plaster casts encasing his legs up to the thighs.

"Look, kiddo," Buck finally said, "things seem pretty shitty right now, but... well, I ain't gonna just leave you twisting. Jacques may have had to convince me to help train ya at first, but... well, there's no gettin' around it. I like ya, Clint. And if you wanna stay with Carson's, I'll keep training ya."

With a sour look on his face, Barney gave an indignant snort and rolled his eyes. Buck's eyes darted over to him and he shifted a little.

"Well, anyhow," said Buck, "I'll give you two boys some time. I'll back back in a while." He gave Clint's shoulder a comforting pat and then silently left the room.

"Well, Clint, you screwed this up good," Barney finally said with a sigh.

"I screwed this up!?" Clint asked, incredulously. "He came after me with his sword, Barn! And besides." Clint lowered his voice, quickly casting a glance to the doorway to make sure no one was there. "I'm not the one who took a cut of the ill-gotten goods."

"I knew it!" Barney said, gritting his teeth and rolling his eyes. "I knew you would do this! That's why I didn't tell you! You always screw up things for me!"

"Skimming off the top of the carnival's profits!" Clint pressed. "I can't believe you'd do that, after everything Carson and the rest of them have done for us! You know they probably would have split us up in the foster system by now!"

"All they've done for us?" Barney replied. "God, you're an idiot! How much help do you think they've been giving us since I turned 18, huh? Carson pays me like any other stage hand, now, but I gotta take care of the both of us on that and it's not much! You like eating, right?"

"Don't blame this on me, Barney," Clint shot back, " _you_ decided to take the money from Jacques, not me!"

"I don't care what you think about it," Barney said, "but now that we don't have that, we can't afford to stick with the carnival. It's time for you and me to move on."

"And do what?" Clint asked. "Where can we go? How exactly do you plan for us to get work? You didn't finish high school and I won't ever, either! The carnival's all we got, Barn!"

"We'll do what we've always done; whatever it takes," Barney replied, "and you're gonna have to grow a thicker skin for us to make it because we're probably going to have to get into some shady stuff."

Clint shook his head, crossing his arms. "No, no, I won't do that."

"You don't have a choice," said Barney, "because I'm out of here and I'm the only one who gives a damn about you."

"You'll have to leave without me," Clint said, his eyes locking on to Barney's with a glare, "because I won't go with you if you do that. I'll take Buck up on his offer, I'll stick with the carnival."

"Fine," Barney said dismissively, making for the door, "just don't come cryin' to me when you're cold and hungry and alone. Because we're finished. I'm tired of carrying you. You think you're so grown up, go ahead and try to take care of yourself."

Clint's instinct was to try and chase after Barney. He shifted in the hospital bed, trying to make his broken legs move. All he got for his trouble was a spike of pain causing him to gasp and squeeze his eyes shut. It was several minutes before he found that he could open them again. His vision was blurred and tears were making their way down his face. He looked around the room, but there was no one.

He couldn't help it. He let out a sob and the tears tumbled down.

He was still like that a couple minutes later when Buck rounded the corner into the room at a run. He stopped dead when he caught site of the teen, helplessly sobbing and trying to rub the tears from his eyes.

"Aww, kid," said Buck, coming over to the bed and lighting on the edge, setting a hand on Clint's shoulder. "He's leavin' isn't he?"

Clint nodded, still trying to wipe his eyes.

"I know it looks bad now, but it's gonna get better," said Buck, "you're with me, now, ya got it?"

Clint swallowed hard, trying to find the ability to speak, but found he couldn't. He nodded again instead and then found that Buck was pulling him closer and putting his arms around him.

"Yep, you're with me, now."


	2. Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coulson tracks a smuggler to Carson's Carnival of Traveling Wonders and meets a young kid with trust issues... and it's no wonder.

_January 5th, 1989_   
_Mason, Texas_

He had to admit, the show was shaping up to be pretty good.

From his spot in the back row of the big top seating, Agent Phil Coulson sat munching on a corn dog on a stick and watching the main attraction at Carson's Carnival of Traveling Wonders. He had been skeptical at first, especially when the first act had been a couple of clowns working with trained monkeys. Idly, Coulson wondered what it was about clowns that made people laugh and be creeped out at the same time.

Maybe SHIELD could look into that, sometime.

But as the show had progressed, the acts had gotten better. Presently, a high-wire act was wrapping up. A stack of three performers, the bottom one riding a unicycle, were presently crossing the wire backward, the top performer holding three sparklers, one in each of her hands and one between her teeth. It was a pretty impressive display of balance. When the group made it to the platform, the top two performers disembarked and the third one flipped off the unicycle and onto the platform with a flourish. The band gave a fanfare and they all took a bow.

"Let's hear it for the Magnificent Malinowskis!" the ringmaster intoned from the center ring as the performers took another bow. The crowd went wild and Coulson focused his attention back on the ringmaster. Or perhaps, he should have called her ring-mistress. The photo he had in his pocket identified her as Marcella Carson, the third-generation and recently-appointed owner of Carson's Carnival. She seemed fairly young, no older than 35 or so.

Marcella continued on to the next act as the high wire troupe climbed down from their perches.

"And now, here to thrill and amaze you," she announced, "one of Carson's Carnival's most unique acts, please welcome the master bowman, the one, the only, the fantastic Trick Shot!"

The crowd cheered again as the tent flap of the stage entrance pulled back and a man who was maybe in his late forties or early fifties walked into the ring, dressed in fringed buckskins and carrying a recurve bow and hip quiver fulls of arrows. Around the perimeter of the ring, stage hands set up several different targets. Coulson's eyes skimmed over them quickly until his eyes settled on one of the stage hands in particular. He, too, matched one of the photos Coulson had, a long-time petty-thief by the name of Simon Lancaster. Word was that he had gotten himself involved in something a little more sinister; the type of thing that got him on SHIELD's Radar.

Coulson put the photos back in his jacket pocket and finished off the last of his corn dog as he watched Trick Shot's act. It wasn't anything terribly ground-breaking. Trick Shot was taking shots that seemed impossible to the crowd, but were still very achievable. He ramped it up somewhat as the act went on to the point where Coulson had to admit he was impressed with the skill, but it still really wasn't anything special. The crowd seemed impressed, though, and he had their complete attention.

Just then, when the crowd was completely focused on Trick Shot, Coulson spotted out of the corner of his eye a lithe figure creeping around the edge of the tent, making for the trapeze ladder. There was a quiver of arrows on his back and a recurve bow slung over one shoulder. Judging by the gaudy black and purple getup, complete with mask with funny little points over the eyes, he appeared to be another performer. Trick Shot continued to tell a grandiose story about an impossible shot he had once had to make in the wilds of the redwood forests in Washington in order to escape a bear. He was setting up a shot that was meant to replicate it. He was just drawing a bead at his target when the masked archer took to the trapeze and began to swing from his knees.

Trick Shot released his arrow and in a flash, the masked archer released one as well, sending his arrow to collide, mid-air, with Trick Shot's pinning it to the ground through the shaft.

"Oh no! Ladies and gentlemen!" Trick Shot said, pointing to the masked archer on the trapeze. "We're all in danger! It's my arch nemesis, the Hawkeye!"

Coulson raised an eyebrow, studying Hawkeye from his spot in the crowd. Swiftly and easily, the performer swung back up in a flip and landed on the bar of the trapeze, standing on the bar of the swing. He drew two more arrows and shot them in rapid succession just an inch away from each of Trick Shot's feet, all while still swinging.

This guy was good. Really good. And not just with a bow and arrow.

"Huh," Coulson murmured with a bit of a smirk, wondering if it would be evil of him to root for the bad guy.

"That's right, Trick Shot!" Hawkeye shouted from his swinging perch. From the tone of voice, Coulson guessed he was pretty young. "I have found you at last! Your plan to travel with this circus was clever, but your posters gave you away!"

"This calls for some of my special arrows!" Trick Shot intoned, pulling out an arrow with a particularly heavy looking tip. "My net arrow should catch him!" He aimed directly for Hawkeye and loosed. Half way through the arrow's flight, the tip burst open, spreading a net with some small weights flying toward the acrobat.

Deftly, Hawkeye flipped to the next trapeze swing, avoiding the net and flipping around into a crouch. It took a moment for Coulson to realize that he had also drawn another arrow at the same time. It was set to the string by the time Coulson noticed it.

"Your nets could never catch me, Trick Shot!" Hawkeye exclaimed. "But my stun arrow will knock you out and then you'll be mine!"

Hawkeye loosed his arrow and Trick Shot danced aside of it just in time. When it hit the ground, there was a small pyrotechnic flash and a burst of sound. Coulson reflected that the maneuver must have been well-rehearsed. These two archers must have had a lot of trust in each other.

"Hawkeye's stun arrows are truly terrible!" Trick Shot exclaimed to the crowd. "I'll have to do something fast to counter them!" He drew another arrow and set it to his string. By then, Hawkeye had readied another arrow. The two archers released at very nearly the same time. Coulson's trained eye was able to note that Trick Shot had released just a fraction of a second sooner, leaving the actual work of the trick to Hawkeye.

The two arrows collided in mid-air, tip-to-tip. There was another burst of pyrotechnics and this time, thick smoke spread out from it, just after the flash faded. The smoke enveloped the entire center ring and drifted up into the trapeze, obscuring the audience's sight of both archers. As the smoke cleared, it was obvious that both archers were gone.

"Oh no!" cried the ring-mistress. "Where could they have gone? What has become of Trick Shot? We may be able to find out, at tomorrow's performance!"

The crowd cheered again and even came to their feet. Coulson found himself doing the same. Again, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the masked Hawkeye peeking around the stage entrance tent flap, a large grin on his face. He pulled the mask back like a hood, revealing a short-cropped head of sandy-blond hair and a younger face than Coulson had expected. He couldn't have been any older than 17 or 18, which only made his skill that much more impressive.

"Unfortunately, we are coming to the end of our show, ladies and gentlemen," Marcella Carson said, stepping back into the center of the ring as stage hands cleared Trick Shot's targets. "But we're going to send you off with one more act for the road. So, here to send you off with a smile, please welcome back MoMo, MooMoo, and the Monkeys!"

Oh, the clowns again. Coulson didn't bother to sit back down and made his way to the audience exit at the back of the rows of seats instead. The archery act had been an interesting diversion, but Coulson was technically here on business. His mark was soon to be running around doing god-knows-what at the carnival, so it would be best for Coulson to begin tailing him now. Perhaps he could also catch the owner and speak to her, as well.

* * *

Clint finished pulling a t-shirt over his head and then ran a hand through his hair and worked a tight muscle out of his neck. Not far away, Buck was packing away both of their show costumes in a beat-up old wardrobe that served as the backstage closet.

"Keep on fluffin' that golden mane of yours, kiddo," Buck said with a smile, "eventually the girls'll notice."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Clint shot back in kind, "or maybe they'd start noticing me if I got to be the good guy for once."

Buck gave a laugh. "Somehow I don't think the crowd would buy a young pup like you being an experienced bear hunter."

"Awww, I could make up a better story than that, anyway," Clint replied giving Buck a smirk as they both headed for the exit to enjoy a little down time.

"Well, aren't you gettin' cocky!" Buck said, grabbing him in a light headlock and giving him a noogie. Clint pushed him off with a laugh.

Clint was about to head off toward the vendor booths and find something to eat when he spotted Marcella Carson, her ringmaster getup having been replaced by jeans and a t-shirt and her brown hair now pulled back into a neat braid. She was talking to a guy who was way overdressed for a trip to the carnival, in a smart two-piece suit. He was showing her some photos and had a very serious demeanor, made all the more ominous by the dark pair of shades he was wearing.

"What do you suppose that's about?" he asked Buck, indicating Marcella and the suited stranger.

Buck's smile drifted away and he narrowed his eyes in suspicion. "Dunno," he said, making his way directly toward the pair. Clint followed only a step behind.

"This guy bothering you, Miss Carson?" Clint asked as they approached.

Marcella turned back to them with a bit of a smile. "Buck, Clint," she said, "no, it's nothing like that. Buck Chisholm, Clint Barton, this is Agent Coulson from the... what was it again?"

"Strategic Homeland Intervention Enforcement Logistics Division," the man rattled off, taking off his sunglasses, "and you must be the archers from the show. Pretty impressive." Coulson's eyes lit on Clint. "Especially that stuff you were pulling from the trapeze. Never seen anything like it."

"Our Clint is one of the best," Marcella stated proudly, "only Buck's better."

"Taught him everything he knows," Buck said, ruffling Clint's hair. Clint pushed him away again.

"That so?" Coulson asked, looking to Buck with a quirk of his mouth. Maybe Clint was crazy, but was that a hint of skepticism he saw in the agent's expression?

"Agent Coulson is following a lead on a case," Marcella stated.

Coulson pulled out his stack of photos again. "Do either of you recognize any of these people?"

Buck took the photos and flipped through them, Clint looking over his shoulder as he did. Buck went through them quickly, powering past one that triggered something.

"Wait, wait, go back," Clint said, "no, no, too far. There! Yeah, that looks a lot like Simon. The other guys I don't remember ever seeing, but that one is definitely Simon. What uh... what's he supposed to have done?"

"I'm not really at liberty to give specifics," Coulson replied, taking the stack of photos back, "but I'm mostly just chasing down a paper trail. Miss Carson, would it be possible to see Mister Lancaster's records of employment?"

"Sure, they're just in the office trailer," she replied, "I can take you."

"Actually, I'll tag along if that's okay," said Buck, "my bank is asking for a copy of my last pay statement."

Marcella nodded her ascent and then led the way to the office trailer, Buck close behind. Coulson paused for a moment, gave Clint and smirk, and raised an eyebrow at him before replacing his sunglasses and following the two of them.

Clint couldn't believe it. Holy crap, the suit knew! Coulson had caught some of the little things in the performance and he knew! Clint was grateful to Buck for training him, but he was beginning to think that maybe, just maybe, he was better than him these days. He wasn't sure when he had started to suspect, and he had kept those thoughts to himself, convinced that no one would ever believe him if he said it aloud. But Agent Coulson, who had only seen the both of them shoot just the once, knew it too.

Clint watched the three of them walk away for a moment. "Huh," he said, then shrugged and continued on his way to find some dinner.

* * *

It took Coulson forever to find a payphone in the tiny town. The fact that the Carnival was on the outskirts as well and that it was near a neighborhood didn't help, either. In the end, he went all the way into what passed for downtown in Mason. Someday, he mused. Someday SHIELD would develop phones that could be carried around. Rumor had it they were working on it, already, and he couldn't wait for that convenience.

He did a cursory glance around to make sure he wasn't being watched and picked up the pay phone. Dialing a number, he reached a message asking for an access code and punched in four more.

"SHIELD switch board, please identify," answered a voice that suggested a robotic habit.

"Agent Coulson, ID code X-ray-two-eight-nine-six," he replied, "confirm the line is secure."

There was a short burst of static, no more than a click, really, that came over the line. "The line is secure," said the voice at the switchboard, "haven't heard from you in a while, Coulson. How's Texas?"

"Quaint," Coulson replied, "and clueless as to what's dropped into their back yard. I need Assistant-Director Fury."

"Hold," said the voice and the line went quiet for a moment, then began to ring again.

"What have you found, Coulson?" Fury asked him as soon as the line was picked up.

"Spotted our guy," he replied, "just as we thought, Lancaster's traveling with Carson's Carnival. Looks like he's a stage hand for the main show."

"So Lancaster has been using the Carnival to get around unnoticed," Fury mused.

"Looks like," Coulson confirmed, "employment records go back about a year, right when the Carnival ended up on our Radar. Haven't spotted the cheese yet, or the buyer. So far the carnival owner seems clean, so I don't think she knows what's going on under her big top."

"Still, can't be too careful," Fury replied, "keep an eye on her anyway. But if she really is in the dark, try to keep her there."

"Understood," Coulson stated, "and sir, there's one other thing. One of the acts has this kid, an archer, Clint Barton. His marksmanship is off the charts and he does it all while hopping around on the trapeze. He's either incredibly talented or..."

"An enhanced," Fury cut in, understanding the point Coulson was getting at, at once.

"Affirmative," Coulson said, then lowered his voice even more. "Sir, the cargo we're trying to recover."

"Gamma-irradiated rocks recovered from a meteor site in Moldavia," Fury said.

"I know that the reason we're after them is need-to-know, but I'm thinking, sir... I might need to know."

"Agreed," Fury replied, "there's a new theory the egg-heads at SHIELD Science have been working on. They think that gamma radiation may be one of the key factors in re-creating Doctor Erskine's super soldier serum. We took great pains to put those rocks out of reach of the commies. If they were to make it into the hands of the Russian government..."

"We might be dealing with a Russian-made super soldier within a year," Coulson realized, "there's a comforting thought."

"Exactly," Fury affirmed, "so I don't need to tell you what's riding on this. I'm putting Agent May on standby in case you need backup. If things start to get out of hand, or even if they _look_ like they will, call it in and I can have her there in three hours."

"Understood, sir."

"Good. Anything else?"

"Not at this time, sir."

"Good," Fury groused, "because I have a stack of paperwork I gotta get back to." He said it as if it was a hell-borne curse.

"You accepted the position from Director Carter, sir," Coulson quipped, one side of his mouth quirking up slightly, "how is the transition process going so far?"

"I can hear your smirk from here, Coulson," Fury bit back, "get rid of it."

"Yes, sir!" Coulson replied, doing his best to get rid of the grin and not really succeeding. The line went dead a moment later, so he hung up the pay phone. It gave a metallic rattle and he reached into the coin return, retrieving his quarter and giving it a flip of satisfaction before returning it to his pocket. He took a few steps away from the phone, intending to head back to the carnival. But he stopped a moment later. As if in afterthought, he took the quarter out of his pocket again and tucked it into his sock.

Never can tell when you'd need to call home. Best to be prepared for all contingencies.

 

* * *

The 5:00 show was in full swing when Clint wandered toward the big top. Buck's act was toward the end of the show, so he still had about an hour before he needed to be ready to go on. This allowed him to be a little more casual about getting ready to go.

There was a section behind the big top, between it and the carnies' trailer town. The space was reserved as a practice area for the performers. Presently, one of Buck's targets was setting at one end of the space, and Clint decided to use it for some warm up.

The cowl for his stage costume still pulled back like a hood, Clint drew a line in the gravel with his toe and stood over it. He took five arrows from his quiver and held them in his right hand, against the side of his bow. He took a deep breath and then began counting his heartbeats.

When he was ready, he grabbed the first of the five arrows from his hand, nocked it, pulled, and released it in one swift movement. Without even waiting for it to land in the target, he moved on to the next, then the next, until his was out of arrows. After the fifth arrow struck the target, there was a perfectly-spaced ring of arrows sticking out of the gold zone on the target. Then he was in motion, moving fluidly to his right as he pulled five more arrows from his quiver. When they were readied, he picked a spot on the blue ring and did the same, all while moving back toward the line he had toed in the gravel. Choosing a spot on the black ring, he did the same again from the left, ending at the starting line again.

A long whistle came from near the tent flap that led to the backstage area of the big top. "Fifteen in seventeen seconds in three perfect groupings," came a voice that Clint did not immediately recognize. Turning toward it, he found Agent Coulson standing near the tent flap. "You really _are_ that good. Give you a minute and enough arrows, you could blot out the sun."

Clint gave a non-committal shrug and wandered toward the target to gather his arrows. "Well, I prefer the shade," he said, "the back area is for the carnies only, Very Special Agent. Something you need? Or are you just lost?"

"Still working, actually," Coulson replied, wandering in Clint's direction, "I understand Lancaster is on stage crew right now?"

"Yeah," Clint replied, tucking his arrows back into his quiver, "if you want, I could give you an account of all the time's he's screwed up. Maybe you could take him off our hands for negligence."

"Not fond of him, I take it?"

"He's an idiot," Clint said, crossing his arms over his chest, "and an asshole. But for some reason Buck likes him, so..." He trailed off and gave a sigh, then a shake of his head, "I dunno. I just don't like him. He's always sticking his nose in where it don't belong."

"He ever stick his nose in your business?"

"He tried once," said Clint, "when he was still new here. I stuck an arrow through the dorky little pom pom on his stocking cap from fifty paces."

"He pissed you ruined his favorite hat?" Coulson asked.

"Well, yeah, but I think he was more pissed that he was wearing it at the time."

"Cheeky," Coulson said, giving a grimace and a knowing smile, "does he have a normal circle around him? Anyone that maybe came into the carnival around the same time?"

"Hangs out with a few guys, pretty regular," Clint said, taking his spot on his starting mark again, "mostly some of the other stage hands. But some of the performers every once in a while, too, like Buck." He pulled an arrow from his quiver and released it in perfect form, landing the point perfectly in the center of the gold. "And as far as I know, he didn't know anyone when he came in."

"You ever see him moving around equipment or cargo he isn't supposed to be? Maybe some you don't recognize?"

Clint shrugged. "Well, he's a stage hand, so..."

"He ever get visitors?" Coulson asked. "Anyone coming looking for him on a regular basis?"

"Just you," Clint said, letting another arrow fly, its point landing so close to the first one that they seemed to be sticking out of the target from the same hole. "So when do I get to ask a question?"

"You just did," Coulson deadpanned.

"He dealin' or something?"

"What makes you ask that?"

With a roll of his eyes, Clint turned back to Coulson, setting the end of his bow on the ground and leaning on it lightly, like a staff. "Really? Do you think I'm a moron? You're asking if he sees strange people and moves around weird stuff."

Clearly surprised, Coulson's eyebrows drifted up toward his hairline. "I'm really not at liberty to say," he said.

Clint pulled another arrow from his quiver and loosed it at the target, his eyes never leaving Coulson's. He let the bullseye do the talking.

"Well," Coulson said, "if you think of anything, I'll be around a while." The agent flipped his small notebook closed and went back around the corner of one of the tents out of sight.

Clint began to go back to his warm ups, loosing another arrow at the target with ease. He was just readying another when he thought he heard an odd clicking noise from the direction Coulson had left. He loosed his last arrow, then crept as quietly as he could to peer around the corner of the tent.

Coulson was there, sweeping the area with a small, bright yellow, hand-held device. That was the source of the clicking. Clint didn't know much about physics or anything, but he knew just from basic pop culture that a device like that was used to measure radiation levels.

Suddenly, this mysterious case that Agent Coulson was working grew a lot more dire in Clint's mind. If Simon was involved in smuggling something radioactive, that could spell danger for the whole carnival. Could everyone be getting sick and not even knowing it yet?

Buck's voice pushed its way into his mind again. _Carnies take care of their own,_ it said. As he gathered his arrows and made his way to the show tent, Clint resolved to do just that.

* * *

Coulson pondered a conundrum.

So far, he had not found anything that was giving unusual radiation readings. For the moment, he knew were Lancaster was, at the big top working as a stage hand. So Coulson was currently free to wander the rest of the carnival with his Geiger counter without too much fuss. He was fairly certain that Barton had seen him using it, but there wasn't much need to ruffle feathers about that. The kid was sharp, observant. Coulson was pretty sure he knew enough not to start a panic or spread rumors. But keeping Barton out of harm's way on the whole thing was likely to be difficult.

The conundrum that Coulson faced now was how to get into the big top with the Geiger counter. He couldn't do it right now, not with the performers and stage hands running around in there. There was just no way that he wouldn't be noticed. But once the show was over and it was empty, he would need to go back to discreetly shadowing Lancaster and wouldn't have the chance.

Idly, Coulson wondered how that cloning research was going. He could sure use another one of himself.

Calling for backup was out of the question, for now. Yes, Fury had May on standby, but it would still take some time for her to get to the carnival; time that Coulson wasn't sure he had before whatever deal was happening went down. Further, an increased presence while he poked around would likely raise more alarms. Lancaster had to know by now that SHIELD was on-site and investigating. Coulson figured that it probably moved his timetable up.

All of this running through his head, Coulson pocketed the Geiger counter and made his way to the food carts, just within sight of the backstage entry to the big top. He lighted on a picnic table with a hotdog and munched, still pondering the predicament. He had just about finished the hotdog when his brain suddenly provided the answer.

It was amazing what a bit of food could do.

He didn't need to search the big top. With Lancaster under more time constraint to finish the deal and make his delivery, he would likely be making a move of some sort tonight. All Coulson had to do was tail Lancaster and he would eventually lead him right to the gamma rocks.

With an inward smile, Coulson left the picnic table and treated himself to a lemonade as he listened to the rest of the show through the canvas walls of the main tent as the sun went down.

* * *

Some spy he was.

It had taken Clint all of about five minutes to lose track of Simon. The guy had bailed on the post-show cleanup and had left the main tent before Clint even had a chance to get changed out of his costume. He stunk as a stage hand, sure, but even so, he never blatantly ducked out on his work. Something was definitely up with him. Coulson's presence probably had him rattled.

Clint took a circuitous route back to his trailer, hoping to spot some sign of where Simon had gone. He had just about given up when he spotted him walking through the main drag of trailer town with Buck. Clint dashed for a shadow and kept out of their sight. They spoke low to each other and Clint couldn't hear, but the conversation ended with a hearty laugh from the both of them.

Probably just sharing some joke. He still didn't understand why Buck liked the guy.

After that, Simon and Buck parted ways; Buck heading back toward his trailer and Simon heading back toward the central part of the carnival. Clint didn't want to get Buck involved, not yet, so he remained in the shadows until Buck was out of range, then took off to tail Simon, pulling the hood of his dark purple hoodie up over his head, partly against the chill in the air and partly against prying eyes.

As the carnival was closing up, Simon blended in with the crowd of patrons that was leaving for the night, so Clint did the same. The crowd streamed across Rainey Street and most of them made for cars that were parked in the lot just next to the high school shot-put field. Simon continued onward, toward a line of trees at the far side of the parking lot, disappearing into the shadows of the meager woods.

Undaunted, Clint plunged onward after him, making his way into the trees. He lost sight of Simon and decided to stick to the shadows of the woods, hoping to catch sight of him without being seen. For several minutes, Clint found no sign of him. He even poked his head out of the woods for a moment to check by the grandstand near the high school track and football field but saw nothing.

Oddly, Clint felt like he wasn't alone in the woods. And it wasn't just the owl he heard off in the distance, either. He kept looking back over his shoulder, swearing someone else was there, but never saw anything. He figured he was getting paranoid. He was new to this, after all.

On one of his checks over his shoulder, Clint spotted the silhouette of a figure dash toward the track and field, making for the side of the grandstand opposite to the woods. With nothing else to go on, Clint decided to creep toward the grandstand to see what was happening there.

He stayed in the shadows of the north-west side. Peering around the front corner, Clint saw Simon pacing back and forth, as if anxiously waiting. From the south-east side of the grandstand, Clint spotted the figure in black silently make his way toward Simon.

"There you are!" Simon exclaimed, in a loud whisper. "Took you long enough! SHIELD is here, we can't just ignore it!"

The figure in black didn't say anything. Clint strained his eyes to try and see a face under the dark hood, but could not. There just wasn't enough light.

"What are we gonna do about that agent guy, that Coulson?" Simon asked urgently. "He's poking around and getting way too close."

The figure in black gave Simon a placating gesture with one gloved hand, his other still stuffed into a coat pocket against the cold. Clint couldn't hear what the man in black was saying, but Simon shook his head urgently.

"No, no, that won't work!" Simon replied. "We gotta find a way to get rid of him, even if we have to off him."

The man in black was saying something again and Simon continued to shake his head. "No, forget it! I'm not going to get caught by SHIELD! They disappear people! If you don't have the guts to do it, I'll do it!"

Simon began to stalk past the man in black, turning away from him with purpose. The man in black grabbed Simon by the shoulder and turned him back around to speak to him. Clint saw something flash silver in the faint light and then Simon gave a wet gurgling sound, gasping, before he fell to the ground and lay still.

Startled by the action, Clint wanted very desperately to leave before he was spotted. In his haste to sneak away, he backed into a metal garbage barrel and made it thump loudly on the ground as it rocked. Clint tumbled to the ground. The figure in black turned toward the noise and spotted Clint as he scrambled to get up. Decisively, he ran after the archer.

By the time Clint was up again, the man in black was only a few paces behind him and gaining. Clint bolted down the backside of the grandstand, near the trees where it was darker. Something large slammed into Clint from behind and it wasn't long before he realized that it was the man in black, tackling him to the ground. They scuffled for a few seconds, Clint trying to get a look at the man's face and dodge the already-bloody knife at the same time. It proved to be just a little too much. He was able to get enough leverage to get back onto his knees, but the man in black slammed into him again.

Something hard connected with the back of Clint's skull. He saw stars for a moment and lost control of his limbs. And that was all he could remember.


	3. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coulson finds that he's stuck with this kid who has caught his interest. But keeping him safe may be the hardest job of all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, all! Thanks for reading the first chapter and coming back for the second!
> 
> I'm going to preface the rest of this story with a few things. Almost every Hawkeye origin story fanfic that I've run into has had Clint spend time as a contract killer. It's so common that I think the fanbase has just accepted it as canon even though there has been nothing in the MCU that I'm aware of that indicates it. There isn't even a comic book precedent of any kind of note for it, either. So I'm not doing it. Same old same old is just not how I roll and it just doesn't sound like Clint Barton to me. Every time he gets into trouble, in whatever universe he's in, he does so because he's a good guy with principles in a crappy world.
> 
> There is a piece of fanon that I am keeping, though, and that's Coulson being responsible for bringing Clint into SHIELD. Why? Because I love the guy, it's completely in character for him to take in a good, talented person who's in a lousy situation (see Skye), and the MCU needs more than the two scenes they have shared (seriously! Thor and the beginning of Avengers! That's it!).
> 
> So, anyway, if you want yet another fic about Coulson rescuing Clint from having to be a contract killer and redeeming him, you can go and read any of the other Hawkeye origin fics out there. Not to say that they're bad. There are several that are very, very good, in fact. But this is a different story.
> 
> Please enjoy and remember to leave a review! Or two! Or three!

Coulson watched his night go all to hell in just a few seconds. He, too, had trailed Lancaster to the football field. But Lancaster's contact pulling a knife and stabbing him wasn't anything the agent had been prepared for. His only option was to try to follow the dark figure in a black coat to try and find out who it was. Otherwise, Coulson had no leads to follow. He began to creep along the top most row of the grandstand to try and watch which direction the man went.

That plan was quickly interrupted, too, though, when the sound of a metal barrel rocking back and forth caused the dark figure to halt and look back. There, sprawled out on the ground, was Clint Barton, looking at the approaching man with horror. Sensibly, the kid bolted around the back of the grandstand, away from the man, but the dark figure gave chase. Quickly, Coulson poked his head over the back railing of the grandstand, getting ready to take action, lest the erstwhile teen become the figure's next victim. A scuffle began in the dark behind the grandstand as Coulson climbed over the railing. He was just about to jump down and join the fray when he saw Barton's head connect hard to a support bar of the grandstand. He crumpled to the ground, out cold, and the dark figure began to make his way toward the teen.

It was now or never, Coulson decided. Luckily, the grandstand wasn't very tall. Coulson let go and dropped on top of the dark figure, sending them both sprawling. Coulson reached for his gun a moment later, but the dark figure was on his feet first and kicked it away before he could take aim. Coulson couldn't see where it landed in the dark and didn't have time to look anyway as a fist was flying his way.

Managing to roll out of the way of the fist, Coulson sprang to his feet and took a wide stance as the dark figure came at him again. He caught the man's right upper cut on his arm and sent a right hook into his abdomen. The man took the hit, but only fell back a few steps. Coulson pressed, trying to drive the figure toward the woods, where the ground was more uneven. But the figure rolled out of the way of his attack and took off running at top speed. He was several yards away by the time Coulson had spun around to follow.

At the same moment, though, a pained moan came from behind him, near the grandstand. Barton was coming around. Coulson spared a moment to glance at Barton, then turned back to begin chasing the dark figure, but worry for the kid got the better of him.

"Dammit!" Coulson swore before turning back toward Barton to check on him, once again cursing his lack of a double.

Barton didn't look too good. He was shifting uncomfortably, but he had yet to open his eyes and didn't really seem to be aware of his surroundings. Coulson put a hand to one side of the kid's head and checked for a pulse. It was strong and steady, but there was a little bit of a trickle of blood coming from the back of the kid's head.

"Hey, you with me?" Coulson asked, softly. Barton gave a weak groan in reply. It sounded like he had tried to say something, but it came out all mush. "Hey, Barton, come on," Coulson pressed, holding the teen's head in both hands to keep him from flopping over.

Slowly, Barton's eyes flickered open, but seemed to have trouble focusing.

"M'head hurts," Barton slurred out, as if realizing it for the first time and Coulson wasn't sure if he had meant to say that out loud. His eyes began to drift shut again.

"Hey, hey, hey, no," Coulson said, giving him a bit of a shake, "don't do that, stay with me, kid."

"M'notta kid," Barton mumbled back in protest, but his eyes came open again and seemed to settle on Coulson. "Wha'happened?"

"Took a pretty hard hit to your head," Coulson replied, trying to gauge Barton's condition. He wanted to check for pupil dilation, but there just wasn't enough light. He couldn't help the kid here.

Decision made, Coulson shifted to Barton's side and pulled an arm over his shoulders. He carefully lifted him to his feet, holding him up by his waist. Barton seemed to try to get his feet under him, but he obviously wasn't going to stay there on his own. He didn't really seem to entirely understand what was happening.

"C'mon," Coulson said, "let's go get you some help."

"Yeah," Barton agreed, distantly.

It took almost ten minutes for Coulson to shuffle back across the street to the carnival with the kid in tow. Barton seemed to be doing his best to try and keep up, but Coulson was doing most of the work. The place had largely cleared out by the time they got there, but Coulson spotted a light in Marcella Carson's office trailer. Depositing Barton on the lowest stair before the doorway, he banged heavily on the door.

"Miss Carson, I need some help out here!" he called, still banging. He didn't stop banging on the door until it was jerked open and Carson appeared in the doorway, looking a little miffed. Her eyes caught sight of Barton a moment later, leaning against the railing and looking sick, and her demeanor instantly changed.

"Oh my god, Clint!" she exclaimed. "Agent Coulson, what happened?" She pushed her way past Coulson and placed herself on the stair next to Barton, her hands on his shoulders to try to steady him.

"He took a pretty hard hit to the head," Coulson said, lighting back on the gravel, in front of Barton. He took the kid's head in both hands again and checked his eyes. They wandered a little and he looked confused, but the pupils seemed to be dilating normally. "He may have a concussion. Miss Carson, I need you to call the paramedics."

She nodded and began to make her way back into the trailer, then paused and looked back at Coulson. "Agent Coulson, is Clint in any sort of trouble?"

"Ish," Coulson replied, and Marcella looked a little uncomfortable, "but he didn't do anything wrong. Please, the paramedics."

Still uncertain, Carson continued back into the trailer and a moment later, Coulson heard her speaking on the phone. He took the moment of privacy to turn his attention back to Barton.

"Hey, you with me?" he asked the kid. Barton's attention seemed to slowly settle back on him. "That was incredibly stupid. What the hell were you doing out there?"

There was a pause and Barton seemed to search for the words. "Simon," he replied finally, "had to see what he was up to. Carnies take care of their own."

Coulson gave a sigh. "Well, you just landed yourself in the middle of something crazy for your trouble," he said.

Suddenly, Barton turned away from him. Holding on to the railing for dear life, he pitched forward and lost the contents of his stomach in one, large heave. Coulson winced in sympathy as the kid continued to spit up bile for a couple heaves.

"Yeah," Coulson said, hearing the sound of sirens in the distance, "this is gonna be a rough night for you."

* * *

The sound and lights of the ambulance had brought out most of the rest of the carnies to gawk. Most of them seemed to be doing so with concern. Carson and Chisholm seemed to hover particularly close to Barton as the paramedics went through concussion protocol with the kid.

The local authorities had showed up not long after and Coulson had jumped in to identify himself. Flashing his SHIELD badge made the Sheriff and the deputy with him stand up a little straighter and shift uncomfortably. Briefly, Coulson filled them in on the situation and directed them to the high school field grandstand, advising them that they would find there the body of one Simon Lancaster.

The usual posturing of the LEOs ensued not long after. As was normally the case, they wanted to be in charge of the murder investigation. It took five minutes on a phone for the governor of Texas to be telling the Sheriff otherwise. Coulson wasn't disingenuous, though. He needed their help, after all, to process the scene. He agreed to let the Sheriff know of any findings, particularly if any of the townsfolk were in any sort of danger. The nature of what was suspected of being smuggled had to remain classified of course, but otherwise he was able to fill them in on most of the details.

Once he was certain that Barton was safe and being looked after, Coulson disappeared into Marcella Carson's office trailer to use the phone. Practically on muscle memory, he dialed into the SHIELD phone system.

"Agent Coulson, ID code X-ray-two-eight-nine-six," he said when a voice came on the line, "confirm the line is secure."

The standard crackle of noise over the line, then he was told the line was secure. He asked for Fury immediately.

"This better be good, Coulson," Fury's beleaguered voice came on the line a moment later, "it is one in the morning here and I was having a particularly good dream."

"Sorry, sir, but we've had some developments," Coulson replied, "Lancaster is dead. Murdered."

Fury gave an audible sigh. "Well isn't that just peachy," he grumbled, "our lead is gone."

"Yeah," Coulson said, "and I couldn't ID the murderer. Too dark. It looked like it was someone Lancaster knew. He had been waiting for him and they had a little chat before hand."

"The buyer?"

"I don't think so."

"Hmm," Fury said, "yeah, that jives with what Hill found."

"What's that, sir?"

"This smuggling thing with that carnival has been going on longer than we first thought," Fury replied, "once we were turned on to Lancaster's involvement, we looked a little deeper into records. The inconsistencies were better hidden, but there's evidence that contraband has been going through that carnival for a number of years before Lancaster even signed on with them."

"Meaning Lancaster wasn't the ringleader," Coulson realized, "he was just the idiot who screwed up and got our attention."

"Exactly," Fury replied, "someone else at that carnival is the person we're really after."

"And he's probably the murderer, too," Coulson agreed, "and the one who's really in contact with the buyer. I'll have to find a way to flush him out. This could get interesting."

"Coulson, why does that make it sound like there's more?" Fury's tone made it clear that he was bracing himself for the worst. Coulson gave a grimace.

"There's a complication, sir."

"What _kind_ of complication?"

"Clint Barton, that kid I told you about before," Coulson replied, "he was following Lancaster, too. Saw the whole thing. The murderer went after him next and I had to stop him. He got a concussion, but I think he'll be all right. I have to assume that the murderer considers him a witness and wants to cover his tracks."

Fury gave a bit of a chuckle. "Well, now, who does that remind me of? You starting to see a bit of yourself in this carnie kid, Phil?"

"I'd be lying if I said no, sir. But I am concerned for his safety."

"Well," Fury said with a sigh, "do what you can, but Barton is _not_ the priority. Finding the smuggler and recovering the gamma ore is."

"Copy that, sir," Coulson replied, trying to sound resolved, but his thoughts were still on the kid.

"Good," Fury said, "keep me informed."

The line disconnected a moment later. With a sigh, Coulson hung up the phone.

* * *

For the fourth time in the last hour, Clint was forced to look directly into the piercingly, painfully bright pen light of the paramedic named John.

"Ow," he complained, "seriously, this is torture, doc. Don't you guys take an oath or something?"

"Well, this will be the last time, Mister Barton," the paramedic assured him with a weak chuckle, "I promise."

"You said that fifteen minutes ago," Clint groused back at him.

"And the fact that you know that this time is a good sign." The thrice-be-damned pen light finally went away, leaving purple spots in Clint's vision and a throb in his head. "You'll probably have some light sensitivity for a while and maybe a few dizzy spells. But all in all, this looks like it was a pretty minor concussion."

"There, Clint, see?" Buck said as Clint's vision cleared. His mentor was sitting on the edge of the ambulance next to him. "Pays to have a hard head."

"Man, shut up," Clint responded, playfully pushing Buck away for a moment.

"Seriously, though, is he going to be all right?" Marcella asked from over the paramedic's shoulder. Clint spotted Coulson exiting the office trailer and making his way over to listen in.

"He should be," paramedic John replied to her, "he should get some rest and he'll probably need to sit out of your acts for at least a day or two. For the rest of the night, wake him up every hour and ask him some basic questions, just to make sure he doesn't deteriorate."

"Basic concussion protocol," Coulson said with a nod, then shifted his gaze back to Clint, "your sleep's gonna suck tonight. Sorry."

"I take it concussion protocol is a part of SHIELD training?" the paramedic asked the agent.

"It comes up disturbingly frequently," Coulson replied with a grimace.

Paramedic John gave a thoughtful nod. "Good," he said, "then if you're going to be sticking around, I recommend you be the one to check in on him."

"Now, Doc, I'm sure Agent Coulson has better things to do," Buck chimed in, "I can keep an eye on Clint."

"Actually, I have very little to do until I get the report from the Sheriff's office," Coulson replied, "which probably won't be until tomorrow. Besides, I need to talk to Clint about what he witnessed."

Buck was on his feet a moment later, stalking over to Coulson and getting right in his face. "Don't you think you've brought us enough trouble?" he said, accusingly. "Clint's one of ours and you come in and the next thing we know, we're calling an ambulance for him."

"Not to mention your colleague is dead," Coulson replied, barely a feather ruffled, "so unless you can point me in the direction of Simon Lancaster's killer, I'll be sticking around to see to it that Barton's kept safe."

"Yeah?" Buck snapped back. "Well, you've done a real bang-up job so far."

"It... really is for the best," paramedic John put in, tentatively, "someone familiar with concussion protocols is the best person to monitor Clint over night."

Buck whirled on the paramedic. "Whadaya know about it?" he snapped. "We're the ones who know Clint the best. We're the ones who can tell if he's actin' funny or rememberin' things wrong."

"Buck," Marcella put in, "I think this time around we-"

"Don't tell me you're gonna go along with this, Marcella!" Buck practically roared back at her. "They're complete strangers! Who are they to be tellin' us what ta do?"

Marcella straightened up and met Buck's gaze with one as biting as his own. "Well, Buck, he's a paramedic who knows about this stuff," she snapped back, indicating John, then she swept her hand to Coulson, "and he's a special agent with experience in investigations. So yeah, I am going to listen to their advice!"

"I can't be around you people right now," Buck said with a dismissive wave of his hand. He spun on his heel and stalked away toward the trailer town, muttering obscenities.

"I'm sorry about him," Marcella said with a sigh after he had left, "Buck just doesn't trust outsiders much. Never has. Especially when it comes to Clint, ever since Barney took off."

"Well, I think we can leave Clint in your hands," said John, scribbling some information on a piece of paper and handing it to Marcella, "here's the contact information for the local ER in case you run into any problems."

"Thank you," Marcella said taking it. She then made her way back over to Clint to give him a hand up. "C'mon, Hawk," she said, "why don't you spend the night in my trailer. That'll give Agent Coulson a place to go for the night, too."

"Kay," Clint replied, wobbling slightly as he came to his feet. He leaned on Marcella a little more than he would have cared to admit. "Always knew I needed a bigger trailer."

"Well! At least your snark's in tact!" Marcella replied as she led him toward her trailer. Coulson handed something to the paramedic and said something Clint couldn't hear, then followed.

* * *

Coulson's watch passed four in the morning and for the third time, he had roused Barton from sleep and asked him basic questions; his name, his age, where he was, whether he recognized Coulson. The poor kid was cranky and protested the repeated intrusions on his sleep, but put up with it none the less. This time, he had dropped back off to sleep in record time and Coulson couldn't help but pull the quilt up over his shoulders against the chill of the night.

Silently as he could, Coulson left the tiny bedroom area of the trailer and made his way back into the dimly lit living area. He was greeted by Carson handing him a hot cup of coffee.

"Any change?" she asked, still holding a cup of her own

"Nope," Coulson replied, taking the cup with a grateful nod, "he still got all the questions right and there's no delay in his answers. Some rest and he should be fine."

Carson gave a frustrated sigh and shook her head, lighting in the well-worn couch that dominated one of the trailer walls. "I'm sorry, but I'm having a hard time believing that," she said, "he witnessed a _murder_ , Agent Coulson. And the murderer is still out there. He's already killed one of my people and he's after another." She threw her free hand up and shook her head. "Clint's a tough kid, been through a lot, but this? I need to know. Just how much danger is he in? Not to mention the rest of my people."

"It's difficult to say," Coulson admitted, taking a chair next to the small kitchen table across from her, "but it is substantial. We have reason to believe the murderer has been traveling with the carnival."

Carson took a deep, unsteady breath and looked toward the ceiling, her eyes closed as she tried to get a hold of herself after that revelation.

"Agent Coulson," Marcella began, but he held up a hand.

"I think we're past that," he said, "we're watching over a sick teenager together. You've even given me coffee. I think you can call me Phil."

Marcella gave a weak smile as she got a hold of herself. "Phil," she corrected, "you have to understand, this carnival is like a family. It's a family of people who have chosen each other. Sure we have our black sheep, but we've still got each other and we don't give up on each other. The idea that one of us could kill another... it just doesn't make sense to me. I don't know how else to explain it."

"This may sound surprising, but I do understand," said Phil, "I joined SHIELD when I was nineteen. There are people there who I would trust before my own blood relatives. But you don't just have a black sheep, Marcella. There's a wolf hiding here and I need to find him. _You_ need me to find him. Before that boy in that bed back there pays the price. Or someone else does."

Marcella didn't answer, gazing into her rapidly cooling coffee with both hands wrapped around the cup.

"How long has Clint been with the carnival?" Phil asked.

"More than seven years," she answered, her gaze shifting to the sleeping teen, "my dad was still running the place then. He and his brother appeared out of a cornfield in Iowa one night in October, shivering and alone. Barney begged us to let them go with us. And they earned their place among us, too. By all rights, dad should have called child services to come pick them up, but none of us had the heart to after we heard their story."

"What had happened?"

"When Clint was five and Barney was eight, their parents were killed in a car accident. They never talked about it much, but I could read between the lines. Their father was a real piece of work, I guess. After that, the two of them spent five years bouncing around the foster system and got nothing but grief for it. The night they came to the carnival, they had run away from their foster-father after some kind of big fight. Barney had a black eye, Clint had a bruise on his jaw. It had to be something pretty terrible for them to have run like that. My dad couldn't send them back to that, so they came with us and they were family after that and that was that."

"So what happened to Barney?" Phil asked. "Why isn't he around?"

Marcella bit her lower lip, the memory clearly making her angry. "Barney... chose not to be family any more," she said, finally, "not ours and not Clint's. He walked out on all of us after the worst night in the carnival's history." She paused, clearly having bitter thoughts. "Until tonight, anyway."

"Marcella, I understand this is hard," Phil said, "maybe dredging up stuff you don't care to think about. But do you ever remember seeing anything... different about Clint? Or his brother? Any kind of special abilities beyond... normal?"

Marcella gave him a look like he had just grown horns and shook her head. "Well, Clint's about the best archer I've ever seen," she said in confusion, "don't tell either one of them this, but I think he's surpassed Buck. But that's only because he's practiced for about eight hours a day, every day since he picked up a bow for the first time." She shook her head again. "What are you driving at?"

"It's probably nothing," Coulson said with a sigh, leaning back in his chair, "guess I just wanted to know how he got so good. SHIELD is always hearing rumors of would-be super soldiers and people with special talents. Just being thorough."

Marcella gave a laugh. "What, like he's the next Captain America or something?"

Coulson shrugged. "Well, ever since Steve Rogers disappeared into the ice in World War II, super soldiers have been the holy grail of lost science. And really, it's not like a disadvantaged orphan kid suddenly gaining special abilities and becoming something great is completely unprecedented."

"True that," Marcella agreed with a small smile, "but trust me, Clint comes by his abilities honestly. But now it's your turn, Phil. I've talked about my people and what they're like. Now I want to know just why SHIELD is hunting the wolf among my sheep."

"Fair enough," said Phil, setting aside his coffee cup on the table and resting his elbows on his knees, "I'll fill you in on what I can."

"So, just what brought you to our door in the first place? This murder only happened after you showed up."

"SHIELD has been tracking some contraband material," Phil replied, "chatter kept pointing to Simon Lancaster being a point man for the smuggling op that kept eluding us. And the communications kept coming from towns where the carnival was passing through."

"What sort of contraband?"

"The dangerous sort. And before you ask, specifics are classified, so I can't go into any detail other than that."

"So, Simon fell in with a bad crowd, smuggling something that he _really_ shouldn't have around my people," said Marcella, "so, what's to say that the guy that killed him wasn't the contact he was trying to meet here in Mason?"

"Let's just say it's not the suspected buyer's usual MO," Phil replied, "it draws a lot less attention to proceed with the deal on the up-and-up, rather than kill the seller and steal the goods. They're not too keen on leaving a trail of bodies. Plus, we have evidence that suggests that the carnival was being used to smuggle contraband before Lancaster joined up. Lancaster's murderer is almost certainly the ringleader, but odds are good there are others involved."

Marcella gave a sigh, leaning back into the couch cushions heavily. "So basically, this is it," she mused, "one way or another Carson's Carnival of Traveling Wonders is probably giving its last few shows. And I thought the rise of the big, permanent circuses was bad for our business."

Phil gave a smile. "Don't have to tell me," he said, "I grew up in Wisconsin. Yearly class field trips to Baraboo through grade eight."

"Good old Ringling Brothers and Barnum and Bailey," Marcella said with a smile, "we lost a family of acrobats to them a couple years back when we went through the region. Plus, there's one I've started hearing about up in Quebec... circle something-or-other. I hear they have some great clowns."

"You say that like it's a draw," Phil said with a snort.

"Don't like clowns, Phil?"

"I don't like clowns," Phil replied with a grimace and a shake of his head.

Marcella gave a laugh, then sobered and leaned forward on her knees, still holding her cup of coffee. She gave a sigh and pondered its contents for a moment. "So... I can either cooperate with you, let some horrible criminal activity come out and ruin us right now. Or I can do everything I can to shoo you off, pretend like nothing's wrong, and keep on going with an enterprise that's probably doomed already, running the risk of my chosen family getting hurt in the process."

"Sounds like a pretty bleak choice, when you put it that way," Phil admitted.

"Yeah, but it's not really a choice at all, is it?" Marcella said, casting her gaze back toward the sleeping Clint for a moment. "I have to protect my family." She looked back to Phil, meeting his eyes and giving a nod. "You have my cooperation."

* * *

"Barton, hey, Barton, wake up."

The voice was back again, bothering him. All he wanted to do was sleep. Why couldn't the guy leave him alone? He gave a groan of protest, still holding the covers under his chin, and turned away from the voice.

"C'mon, Barton, I mean it," Coulson pressed, shaking his shoulder, "rise and shine."

"Clint Barton. Seventeen. I'm with Carson's Carnival of Traveling Wonders in Mason, Texas. You're very, _very_ Special Agent Coulson. And it's been an hour. I'm going back to sleep."

"You're right on all counts except the last," Coulson replied, "which you would probably have gotten right if you had bothered to open your eyes and see the sun is up. C'mon, it's almost nine."

"Huh?" Clint mumbled, prying his eyes open to sunlight filtering through the thin drapes on the windows of Marcella's trailer. He squinted and rubbing his eyes against the stab of pain it brought. "Thought you were supposed to wake me up every hour. It was four AM last time."

"I did," Coulson replied, "you're fine. Decided to let you get some actual sleep for a few hours. How's your head?"

"Futzing hurts," Clint said, pushing back the covers and levering himself into a sitting position.

"Figured as much," said Coulson, handing Clint an unmarked bottle that rattled and a glass of water, "take two of these every four hours or so until the headache's gone."

Clint eyed the bottle suspiciously. "This gonna wipe my memory or somethin', secret agent man?"

Coulson wrinkled his brow, giving Clint an incredulous look. "What? Hell no! I need your memory in tact. It's acetaminophen with caffeine, for migraines. Besides, if SHIELD could do that, you probably wouldn't know we exist. We'd probably be fronting as a phone company or something."

Clint allowed as much and gave a nod in agreement, twisting the bottle open and downing two of the capsules with a swallow of water.

"While those kick in," Coulson went on, "I need to ask you some questions?"

"Thought I already answered 'em," Clint replied back, the corner of his mouth turning up a little.

"You really _are_ snarky," Coulson replied, with a raised eyebrow, "I need to know about last night. Starting with why you were there in the first place."

Clint gave a sigh. "I'm in trouble, aren't I?" he asked.

"Yeah," Coulson replied, flatly, "someone tried to kill you last night. I'm thinking it's about the worst kind of trouble you can be in."

Clint gave a derisive snort. "Wouldn't be the first time," he mumbled to himself, bitterly, looking away.

"What'd you say?" Coulson asked.

"Nothin', never mind," Clint replied, looking back to the agent and giving another sigh. "I just wanted to see what Simon was into, all right? I saw you wanderin' around with the Geiger counter yesterday and I was worried it was something dangerous. Guess I got my answer. So, all right, fine, I'll keep my hands off, I'm out."

Coulson shook his head with a grimace. "I don't think so," he said, "you saw the whole thing. That makes you the next one on the murderer's list."

"But I didn't see anything," Clint protested.

"He doesn't know that," Coulson countered, "and murderers don't usually like to take chances, especially when organized crime is involved."

"Great," Clint carped, flopping back onto his pillow so he was looking up at the ceiling, "now I'm wanted by the mob. That's just peachy."

"Run through what you saw for me."

"Simon, creepy guy, murder, a lot of dark, and then lots of nice, bright stars when he hit me."

"All right, look," Coulson said, sternly, "maybe _you_ don't care that your life is in danger, but there are plenty of people who do."

"Like who?" Clint shot back, bitterly.

"Like Marcella Carson, for one," Coulson replied, "and your friend, Buck. And if that's still not enough for you to take this seriously, then think about the danger they're in. Because if the murderer is willing to kill you, he'll be willing to kill anyone who stumbles into this."

Clint rolled a sidelong glance at Coulson. "Plus there's the radiation thing, too."

"You really shouldn't know that, but that's on me," Coulson admitted, "you're sneakier than I took you for. I didn't even know you were at the football field until you knocked into that trash can. Takes some doing."

There was a long pause and Clint didn't say anything. He weighed his options for a moment. Just exactly how much deeper did he want to get in with Special Agent Phil Coulson of SHIELD?

"I didn't see his face," he said finally, sitting up again, "it's was too dark. But he was taller than me, by about six or seven inches, maybe. And built like a brick wall, hit like a mule."

"Yeah," Coulson agreed, "that part I got. Did you hear him say anything to Lancaster before he killed him?"

Clint shook his head. "Naw," he said, "I could hear that he was whispering, but I couldn't make out anything. From how freaked out Simon sounded, it seemed like they were arguing."

"Any idea what they were arguing about?"

"Whether or not to off you," Clint said without missing a beat and then watched Coulson for a reaction. The agent's face didn't give any sort of indication that this was a surprise. "What? Nothing?"

"Job hazard," Coulson said, off-handedly, "so the murderer wanted Lancaster to kill me, then."

"No, it was the other way. Simon wanted to and the guy was talking him out of... wait...why would he want to kill me for stumbling into it and not you for investigating it?"

For a moment, Coulson looked surprised at that question, both his eyebrows raising just a fraction before he could police his face back into a normal, neutral expression. Clint might not have spotted it if he wasn't already trying to guess at the agent's motivations and thoughts.

"At a guess," Coulson said, "because of the notice it would bring. Take you out, he's just gotten rid of a witness. Take me out, I don't report in to SHIELD, the director sends a whole team to start looking around. That's the last thing he needs."

"Not feelin' the love, here," Clint groused.

"Not my job," Coulson replied, "and you asked."

"Fair point," Clint said with a roll of his eyes. "So what do we do now?"

" _We_ don't do anything," Coulson said, standing up, " _I_ continue the investigation and _you_ keep me advised of your whereabouts. Check in with me every hour and I'll do what I can to keep you safe." He turned toward the door of the trailer and made to leave.

"Wait, wait," Clint said, shooting to his feet, "you can't just cut me out of this. I'm _involved_ now."

"Exactly," Coulson replied turning back to him for a moment, "way more involved than you should be. The best way to keep you safe is to convince the killer that you're not a threat to him. And the best way to do that is if you don't learn any more."

"So, what? I just go about my day, knowing that one of the other carnies is a murderer?"

"Pretty much, yeah," Coulson said with a rather smug-looking tilt of his head. He opened the door of the trailer and disappeared outside. Clint followed him and watched as the agent continued to calmly walk from the trailer.

 _No way_ , Clint decided. There was no way he was going to just go about his business. Someone wanted him dead and that was just not okay by him. He wasn't going to leave his safety in the hands of some complete stranger in a suit, tie, and dorky aviator sunglasses. No, he was going to do whatever he could to find out what was going on and who was behind it.

It was just that he didn't have any idea how.


	4. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The picture begins to clear and Coulson and Clint soon find themselves at a crossroads.

Coulson's frustration was palpable. He was at a loss for where to go next. Barton hadn't seen any more of the murderer than he had. The only description either of them had was "male, about five-nine and possessing a fair amount of upper body strength, associated with Carson's Carnival of Traveling Wonders." The description matched about half of the male carnies. And Coulson was no closer to finding the gamma ore, despite all his searching.

Presently, he was holed up in Marcella's office trailer again, looking over the newly-obtained initial report from the Sheriff's office of the crime scene. The medical examiner had also sent along his initial findings.

As expected, Lancaster's cause of death was a deep puncture wound to the aorta and the diaphragm. Not only had the guy bled out, but he had suffocated as well. The wound matched the bloody knife that had been found at the scene of Coulson's toussle with the murderer. The knife didn't have any sort of prints on them, which made sense since Coulson remembered the murderer wearing gloves against the chill.

So, basically, the reports told him bupkis.

With a sigh, Coulson set the reports aside, wishing for the more-talented investigators and medical examiners that SHIELD employed. He moved on to sifting through Marcella's files again. With the new information he had gotten from Fury the night before, he went back through the employment histories of all the carnies again, eliminating those that had not been with the carnival when the first of the smuggling was found in records. The files were split about half and half by the time he was done, which still didn't leave much of an indication. But then, he reflected, there was no telling if any of the ones in the other pile weren't also involved. After all, Lancaster had obviously been recruited into this.

As to motive? Well, none of the carnies made a fortune or anything. Several years prior, there had even been an incident where several carnies had been skimming off the top of the day's earnings. That had come to a grinding halt when it was exposed and several had been dismissed over it. Marcella had taken over from her father scarcely a year after that and had instituted new book-keeping to keep that sort of thing from happening again. It was certainly conceivable that anyone who had not been found in that incident may have looked for alternate means of illicit income.

"I hate the circus," Coulson muttered to himself running a hand through his hair.

Was he crazy, or was his hair thinning, already?

His frustration was interrupted by a loud crash out in the carnival yard. Coulson bolted out of his chair and tore open the trailer door. There was a lot of wild commotion near one of the storage tents and several people were rushing that way. Loosening his gun in its holster, he took off that way as well. By the time he reached the tent's entrance, he had to push his way past several people.

The inside of the tent looked a little bit like a tornado had hit it. A large crate lay in pieces on the ground, having fallen off the top of another. The pallet that they had both been on was twisted and collapsed at one corner. Just beyond the broken crate was Buck Chisholm kneeling next to a shaken-looking Barton, on the ground, just beyond the crate.

"Just take a sec, kiddo," said Chisholm, giving Barton a pat on a shoulder, "glad to see that knock on your head didn't dull your reflexes any."

"Thing nearly fell right on top of me!" Barton exclaimed.

"What the hell happened in here?" Coulson asked pushing his way inside and kneeling next to Barton's other side. He had directed the question at Barton, but Chisholm immediately jumped in with an answer.

"Just a little accident, Agent Coulson," he said, "don't get your tie in a twist. We were just seeing to some chores."

Coulson redirected his gaze to Chisholm. "Moving crates around? He's supposed to be taking it easy."

Chisholm's face began to turn into a scowl and he seemed to be about to spew some choice language at Coulson. But Barton chimed up before things escalated.

"No, no, no, nothing like that," he said, "just straightening up, cleaning the place, it was a sty. No heavy lifting, I promise. I was just getting stir crazy."

"He offered to help with some light chores," Chisholm said, somewhat darkly, "he ain't no invalid and he don't need to be treated like glass."

Coulson was about to offer some choice words in return when Marcella Carson pushed her way into the tent.

"What the hell is going on in here?" she shouted, stalking toward the trio. Barton pulled himself up off the ground with a hand from Chisholm. "Someone please tell me why there is an entire crate of animal feed on the ground and why the person with a concussion is currently brushing it out of his hair!"

Barton was, indeed, brushing debris out of his hair. Self-consciously, he stopped and put his hands back down at his sides.

"We were just cleaning up, Marcella," Barton said, "I'm bored!"

Marcella rolled her eyes skyward and took a deep breath. Murmurs behind her brought her attention back to the crowd at the tent entry way. "All right, you lot," she said, giving a shooing motion with her hands, "show's over. Get gone, already." As the crowd dispersed, Marcella turned back to Barton. "Clint, you know you're supposed to be resting."

"Aww, not you, too, Marcella!" Chisholm jumped back in, "Clint's no baby. Kid's bored and he offered. What am I gonna do, send him back to his trailer with cookies and milk? I ain't his dad!"

"No, you're his teacher!" Marcella shot back. "You shouldn't be encouraging him."

"We were just sweeping up the feed storage! One of those old pallets busted! I've been saying for a while some of them are gettin' old! Bah!" He gave a dismissive wave of a hand and made for the tent entry. "Don't go bitchin' at me about safety around here until you look to it yourself!"

Marcella gave him a glare as he brushed by her and stalked after him. "Don't you turn this around on me, Buck Chisholm!" she called as she exited. The two of them continued to throw words back and forth at each other as they stalked away from the tent, their voices fading into the distance.

Coulson moved toward the broken crate and the collapsed pallet. Kneeling down next to it, he studied the pieces of the pallet, the source of the apparent mishap. He ran his fingers over the pieces for a moment and found something weird at the broken ends of the pieces of wood. It was jagged and splintered, but only part way through. The rest of the break was clean and measured.

 _As if it's been cut just enough to give way with a jostle,_ Coulson realized.

"Thanks, I'm just fine, over here," Barton groused from over his shoulder.

"I know," Coulson replied, standing up again and looking about at the rest of the crates. He ran the toe of his shoe through the discarded animal feed on the ground. "I heard you the first three times you said it. Animal feed, huh?"

"Yeah," Barton replied with a shrug, "whole tent's full of the stuff."

"Huh," Coulson said, thoughtfully, looking around at the rest of the crates in the tent. He spotted two with a different brand stamped on the side. "Same stuff you've always used?" he asked.

"Yeah, sure," Barton said, "have for years. Old Man Carson negotiated a twenty-year deal with the company. Dunno how. Why?"

Coulson gave a shrug and turned back to Barton. "Only witness in a murder investigation is nearly crushed by a half-ton crate? Call it being thorough. So, who's responsible for keeping the place tidy?"

"Rotates," Barton said with a small shake of his head, "a lot of people have done the job. Simon, Gustav, Royce... I've done it. This week, it's Buck and I was just helpin' out. You really think this was another try to off me?"

"Could be," Coulson said, "hard to say. Probably best that you keep out of large storage areas for the rest of the day, though."

Barton rolled his eyes and threw up his hands in frustration. "There you go again!" he exclaimed. "Sidelining me, like it's got nothing to do with me! In case you forgot, it's _my_ life we're talking about here!"

"And the fewer chances the killer has to take you out, the better," Coulson replied, "believe me, I know it sucks. But it's the way this has to work."

"I am _not_ just baggage!" Barton protested.

"I never said you were," affirmed Coulson, "you've been one of the best sources of information I've had. You want to find this guy as much as I do, maybe more. Your info hasn't led me wrong yet."

"Far as you know," Barton said, sourly, "what if I'm in on it and I'm the guy meant to distract you?"

"Then it won't be long until I find that out, too," said Coulson, to which Barton turned away from him with a scoff, "but for now, I just have one more question for you. Just exactly how well do you know your teacher, Buck Chisholm?"

There was a long, agonizingly tense pause as Barton slowly turned back around to look at Coulson with a glare. It was scathing, a look that would have made most men back down. Coulson had to admit that he he even nearly flinched. But he was able to keep his expression neutral as Barton stalked his way.

"Just, _exactly_ , what are you asking me?" Barton asked, venom dripping from his voice.

"Like I said, just being thorough," Coulson replied, calmly, "he _was_ the only one with you during the accident."

"You are _shitting_ me!" Barton roared back. "Anyone could have cut into that pallet and left it like that!"

"True," Coulson said with a shrug, "but who would know you'd be in here? As you said, it's Chisholm's turn at cleaning up in here. And you're supposed to be on the DL."

"No! Not Buck! I won't believe it. When everyone else walked away, he was the only one who stayed. He wouldn't do this! You're full of shit." Barton whirled around and made for the tent entrance, an expression that would melt rock on his face.

"Then ask yourself two questions," Coulson said, causing Barton to pause at the entry, "Who else knew you would be in here today? And did you offer to help Buck, or did he ask you?"

Barton didn't turn around or say anything, but he clenched a fist around the pulled-back tent flap. Coulson saw the muscles in his jaw jump. For a moment, the kid looked like he was going to spin back around and throw a fist at the agent. But after a moment that stretched on for what felt like hours, Barton threw back the tent flap with a huff and stormed out.

As the tent flap fluttered closed, Coulson gave a sigh and scrubbed his face with a hand, hoping that he hadn't just sent the kid down a path he couldn't survive.

His next step for now, though, was to check those crates that were out of place. _One of these things is not like the other, one of these things does not belong_ , drifted through his head as he made his way over to them and began to fish the Geiger counter out of his pocket. Just then, however, he heard Chisholm and Marcella's voices coming toward the tent again, still exchanging harsh words. Putting the Geiger counter away, he decided to retreat for now. He could check those crates later, when no one was watching.

* * *

Clint drifted aimlessly for several hours, his mind spinning. For some of that time he paced angrily outside of his trailer, muttering obscenities under his breath. Some part of him realized that it wasn't helping, so he tried to lay down on his bed in his trailer for a while, but his mind would not stop whirling. He tossed and turned for a while and when he decided that was not helping him calm down, he went to the practice range with his bow and quiver.

He should have just started with this, he reflected as he loosed the first few arrows at the target. It was the only thing that ever let him focus enough to calm down and think, when things got rough.

_Breathe. And... release._

The arrow sailed through the air and effortlessly hit the exact mark he had aimed for. He repeated the process in slow, measured motions until his quiver was empty and he finally felt like he could breathe normally again. As he retrieved the arrows and set up on his mark for a second flight, he began to go over the conversation he had had with Coulson.

Coulson was wrong. He had to be wrong. There was no way that Buck would be the guy they were looking for. There was no way he would try to kill Clint. And if that moron in a suit and tie thought otherwise...

 _Breathe_.

But Coulson didn't know Buck like Clint did. He was just following the leads that were available. Just doing his job. And he seemed pretty sincere about it all, too.

 _And... release_.

So what leads were there, anyway? Not a lot, that was certain. The only one they knew for certain was involved was Simon and he was dead. And with almost the entire rest of the carnival accounted for for alone on their way to sleep at the time, there wasn't much way to narrow things down. So Coulson's best lead right now was to try and find out who was out to kill Clint. Wait, did that mean that jackass was going to use him as bait? Because if he was, Clint would knock him on his ass in ten seconds...

 _Breathe_.

No, that didn't ring true. Coulson was doing everything he could to keep Clint away from the situation, to protect him. Using someone as bait without them knowing it didn't seem like the guy's style.

 _And... release_.

What if Clint offered to be bait? After all, he was the best lead they had. Maybe if he went to Coulson and offered to give the killer another chance at him. But, no, Coulson had already said he didn't want Clint anywhere nearer to this than he already was. The guy was futzing stonewalling him at every turn. Never mind that they didn't have anything else. Never mind that it was Clint's life on the line. Never mind that Clint could make his own futzing choices and...

 _Breathe_.

No, Coulson was a dead end. And the nature of the job made the guy keep his distance, anyway; all that classified bull shit. He was probably as frustrated by it as Clint was.

 _And... release_.

So, maybe if Coulson was a dead end, Clint could at least do something about proving that Buck wasn't involved. Sure the guy had been a jerk the past couple days, but that didn't mean anything, right? The carnival was being investigated and there had been a murder, so everyone was freaking out. This was just how Buck was dealing, right? There had been times of stress before, though. That time with Jacques for one. And the more Clint thought about it, the more that Buck's behavior didn't seem to fit. After Jacques, Buck had been overly protective of Clint. It had been weeks after he had gotten his casts off before Buck had allowed Clint to do almost anything for himself, months before he was willing to let Clint pick up a bow and get back to performing. What was it that Coulson had asked him? Did he offer Buck his help or had Buck asked him for it?

 _Breathe_.

Buck had asked him. He had been super casual about it, nothing too out of the ordinary. But it _had_ been Buck asking him for help in the feed storage.

 _And... release_.

That arrow didn't land quite where Clint had expected it to. He had been aiming for the blue ring on the target and it landed in the black, about three inches away. That was weird.

Before he could dwell on it, Clint pulled another arrow and took aim at the same spot.

 _Breathe. And... release_.

Right where he wanted it. Good.

There was no way around it. Buck was acting weird. After the thing with Jacques, he had been cooperative with authorities. This time around, he seemed to be doing everything he could to keep Coulson at a distance. And this time, someone had _actually_ died.

 _Breathe_.

But he couldn't be involved! He just couldn't! Clint couldn't go through that yet again!

 _And... release_.

Again, the arrow didn't land in the right place. He had aimed for the red and it landed in the gold, right in the bullseye. Clint immediately reached for another arrow, but his hand grasped air. His quiver was empty. With a growl of frustration, Clint went to the target and retrieved his arrows one by one.

Whatever was going on with Buck, Clint needed to know what it was. If for nothing else, than just his own piece of mind. Maybe Buck was into something that he didn't want the authorities to know about, but certainly it didn't involve murder.

Coulson could have his investigation. Clint would clear Buck of any involvement by having his own. As the sun began to set beyond the sparse trees, Clint set out to find Buck and have a little talk.

* * *

Figuring that would be when most of the carnies would be busy, Coulson waited until the last show of the evening to return to the feed storage tent. What he didn't count on was that it was feeding time for some of the animals that were done performing for the day, so there was a handler in and out for most of the show. Finally, when the handler returned his empty bucket and came back out of the tent empty-handed and taking off his gloves, Coulson made his move.

By then he didn't have very much time left. The show was on its last couple of acts by then. As soon as he decided that the coast was clear, he ducked inside the tent and pulled out a pen light and his Geiger counter. He flipped it on and a gentle ticking noise came out of it. Looking around, he scanned for the crates with the different logo on them and made his way over.

As he approached, the Geiger counter began to click more frequently. The meter showed a definite rise in activity, more than just your average, harmless background radiation. Setting the Geiger counter on another crate, Coulson looked around and found a crowbar setting on top of another one. Holding his pen light in his mouth, he grabbed it and began to work it into the lid of the off-brand crate that was most easily accessible.

The wood of the crate made a terrible creaking noise. He stopped dead and listened, checking to see if anyone had heard. When there was no indication that anyone was nearby, he continued to pry open the crate, though he treated it a little more gently, hoping to decrease the noise.

It took an agonizingly long time, but he finally got the crate open. As he suspected, inside there was no feed. Instead, he was met with the sight of a latched metal box with straw packed around it to keep it from rattling about. He fished into the straw and found the releases for the latches.

As soon as he opened the lid of the metal box, the Geiger counter began to click wildly and an eerie green glow lit up the inside of the crate. Inside, a collection of rocks, each no larger than his fist, practically vibrated with energy.

The gamma ore.

Pulling a small camera out of another pocket in his suit coat, he snapped a few photos of the ore, the metal box, the crates. Then, he closed the metal box again, cutting off the ominous green glow, and packed the straw back in around it. Carefully, as quietly as he could, he tapped the lid of the crate back into place. Collecting the Geiger counter and turning it off, he made for the tent entrance. Now that he had located and confirmed the ore was there, it was time to call in backup. Fury could have May there in a couple hours and a full team there within six to collect the ore and secure it. All he had to do until then was keep an eye on it, discretely.

Switching off and pocketing his pen light, Coulson exited the tent and began to make his way toward Marcella's office trailer. He was just passing the stage entrance of the big top when he spotted a figure slip out and disappear into the night, dressed all in black, hooded. The figure had the same height and build as the killer from the previous night. The figure moved stealthily south, toward a dark patch of scrub-like woods that backed up to the carnival grounds. Just barely keeping the figure in sight, Coulson followed from the shadows.

The figure halted about fifty yards into the woods and flashed a small flashlight into the trees. There was a pause, then an answering flash and the figure in black struck out again in that direction. A woman, also dressed in black, appeared out of the woods and approached Coulson's mark. She pulled back her hood and Coulson got a glimpse of her face. She looked fairly young and the moonlight lit up the locks of red hair that surrounded her face. The two of them began to converse, just low enough that Coulson could not hear. Cautiously, he crept closer hoping to hear. He could hear that they were speaking, but couldn't quite make out the words. With a jolt, he realized that it was because they were speaking in Russian.

This was the buyer. The deal was happening tonight.

Off to Coulson's right, there was a rustling of leaves and a crunch of sticks on the ground. He jumped and looked for the source of the noise and saw a rabbit bounding away in the moonlight. When he looked back to the two conspirators, the woman was gone. No trace of her. No noise. Just gone. The figure in black turned back toward the carnival and began to make his way in Coulson's general direction. It was all Coulson could do to dive back under cover so that he wouldn't be seen as he passed.

As the figure in black came close, he pulled what looked like a walkie-talkie out of the pocket of his hoodie and turned it on. As the figure passed only a couple yards away from Coulson, the agent caught sight of the smuggler's face, at long last.

Buck Chisholm.

"Frankie, it's Buck," Chisholm said into the walkie-talkie as he began to make his way back toward the carnival, "our buyer is good to go. We move the crates in three hours."

"What about the complication?" a voice crackled back over the walkie.

"It's an odd twist, but... it's taken care of," Chisholm responded, "we won't have any more trouble from Clint."

Coulson's blood ran cold as he realized that it had been a few hours since he had checked in with Barton, to make sure he was okay. In fact, he hadn't seen the kid since he had stormed out of the feed storage. Coulson wanted to make a break for the carnival, find Barton, and tell him to go into town for a few hours, just get out and make himself scarce. But Fury's orders rolled through his head.

Barton was not the priority. The ore and the smuggler were.

Digging his fingernails into his palm, he forced himself to stay still until Chisholm was out of sight. Then, as quickly as he dared, he took a round-about route back to the carnival grounds and ran for Marcella's office trailer and the phone there. Thankfully there was no one there. He all but attacked the phone and punched in the phone number for the SHIELD switchboard. He didn't even let the voice at the other end finish before he rattled off his ID and demanded Fury, on red priority. As the call was transferred, Coulson glanced at his watch, guessing it had taken him about seven minutes to return from the woods.

"What do you got, Coulson?" Fury's voice came on the line.

"I found the ore and the smuggler," Coulson replied, "but we got problems. I need backup here, priority one. The buyer is on-site, a Russian woman, and the transfer is going to be made in under three hours."

"Dammit!" Fury exclaimed. "May is three hours out. The rest of the team even further."

"I know," Coulson said, "what are your orders?"

"Get the ore," Fury said, "the Russians can't do anything without that. Get it out of there, I don't care how."

"Sure, a half a ton of gamma-irradiated rocks, I'll just slip it in my pocket and go into town," Coulson snarked back.

"Don't get cute with me, Phil," Fury snapped back, darkly, "I don't got the time. If this Red Room thing that we've started hearing chatter about gets a super soldier, we may be pretty damn screwed. It's on you, right now, so get it done."

"Yes, sir," Coulson confirmed.

"And, Cheese; watch your six," Fury said just before the line went dead.

"I hate that nickname," Coulson mumbled as he hung up the phone and tore out of the trailer again.

He needed to find a way to move the ore without anyone noticing. It was a tall order. The only way he could think of to move crates that large quickly was a forklift. He had seen one around, but it was noisy and Chisholm and the other smugglers would likely be looking to use it shortly. He would definitely be spotted and being as he was outnumbered, he didn't like those odds. Plus, the Russian woman was an unknown factor. Was she alone or did she have backup?

No, a direct confrontation was not a good idea and that meant that he could not move the ore to another location altogether. What he needed was a delaying tactic. And he needed one that didn't involve taking anything out of that tent for all the world to see.

A plan crystallized in his mind just then. The crates with the ore were not the only crates in that tent. He might have just enough time to switch the contents of the crates so that the smugglers would be delivering animal feed to their buyer. It would give him just enough time to wait for May to show up as backup and then they could do something a bit more secure.

Coulson made for the feed storage tent as fast as his legs could carry him. He skidded inside, past the tent flap, and cast about for the crowbar he had used before. He spotted it on the crate on which he had left it and reached for it.

That was when something connected with the back of his skull, introducing him to blackness.


	5. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the final confrontation and decisions for both Agent and Circus Performer are made.

Coulson woke with a shock when a bucket of cold water splashed over his head. Reflex made him jump and try to put his hands up, but he found that he could not move them. His legs seemed to be stuck, too. Shaking the water out of his eyes, he opened them to find that he was tied to a chair in the feed storage tent. He tested the ropes for a moment and found they were tight, the knots no where in reach. There was a knife hidden in his belt buckle, but reaching that was a pipe-dream, too.

"I guess the cat's out of the bag," Chisholm's voice said from over his shoulder. Several others were present, too, circled around him, most of them holding various blunt objects; a crowbar here, a baseball bat there. A couple actually had guns in hand of disparate makes and models. One of them appeared to be Coulson's own.

Chisholm circled around and tossed the empty bucket that had clearly been holding the cold water to Coulson's feet.

"I was hopin' we could complete our little business venture before ya' found it," the archer continued, "but guess that's not ta be. So that makes me wonder; what do we do with the nosy SHIELD agent?"

"If you want my advice," Coulson said evenly, "untie me and turn yourselves in. It's really your best option."

There were a few chuckles from the assembled group.

"One ah you, all of us," Chisholm said, "I think we'll take your chances, funny man."

"What about all of SHIELD?" Coulson countered. "Because they're on their way."

"Oh yeah? How long?"

"Well, I wouldn't want to spoil the surprise," Coulson replied, blithely.

Chisholm's response was to throw a vicious fist across Coulson's face. The agent felt his lip split and tasted blood in his mouth. He even saw stars for a moment. As he recovered his senses, he spit blood on the ground.

"That's it?" Coulson asked with sarcasm. "Didn't even loosen a tooth."

This earned him another blow.

"That was a little better," Coulson allowed, then spit out a tooth, "that one was fake anyway. Listen, we can sit here and go back and forth, but you should know that I've got experience with anti-interrogation. I've been through practice sessions that would already have you guys crying. And I'm betting that probably already hurt your hand."

Chisholm drove a fist into Coulson's stomach. Coulson curled in around it. Chisholm pulled his head back up so that they were looking at each other, mere inches away. "I hear talkin', but I don't hear nothin' I care about."

"Really?" Coulson asked. "A double negative? Aren't you hitting the cliches a little too hard?"

That earned him another gut shot.

"He's stallin', Buck," said one of the goons in the room, "we gotta get movin'."

Ah, so there _was_ someone with brains in the outfit. Stalling was, in fact, what Coulson was trying to do. The longer they were dealing with him, the less time they had to get the ore to the buyer before May showed up.

Buck gave a nod, still directing a glare at Coulson. "Yeah, yer right, Frankie," he agreed, "it wasn't my first choice, since it'll bring the rest of SHIELD down on us. But he ain't gonna give us any info and we can't leave him here. We got one other thing he can be used for, though. Hey, kiddo! Get in here!"

The tent flap pulled back and another figure entered the room. "After tonight, you're gonna stop calling me that."

Coulson recognized the voice. Barton.

"Clint, you come through this with us, you'll earn that," Chisholm replied as Barton stepped up next to him. He had his bow in hand and his full quiver slung over his shoulder. "But listen, kid," Chisholm continued, "you came ta me and said you were with us, but that ain't the same as showin' it. You know that I believe you, but the rest of the guys need some proof before they agree ta divvy up another cut."

Coulson had a sinking feeling he knew where this was going. He gave a pained sigh and shook his head. "Aw, Barton," he said, with genuine regret, "thought you were better than this."

Barton gave a scoff and rolled his eyes. "What do _you_ know about me? We met yesterday."

"I know you've had it hard," Coulson responded, "but that doesn't need to make you hard."

"Oh, god!" Barton exclaimed. "You gonna go all heart-to-heart on me, now?"

"I know you've been looking for family since your brother walked out on you," Coulson pressed, "this carnival is-"

Barton lunged forward and put one hand around Coulson's throat, pushing his head back, his other hand leaning against one of Coulson's bound ones on the armrest of the chair. "You have _no right_ to talk about my brother!" Barton roared at him. "What the hell do you even know about it!"

Coulson was so shocked by the outburst that it took a moment to realize that something hard was being slipped into the palm of his hand, triangular and with sharp edges. An arrow head?

Baron's eyes locked onto Coulson's for a long moment. The look in the kid's eyes was intense, filled with willpower and just a hint of a clever gleam. Coulson was hard-pressed not to show any sign that he understood as he shifted the arrow head in his hand and began to nibble away at the section of rope he could reach with it, discretely.

Barton pushed on him and backed off, causing the chair to skid on the ground and rock a little bit. The extra movement gave Coulson a chance to bite into the rope a little deeper without the motion being seen. He was already half way through.

"So what do you want me to do with him, Buck?" he asked his teacher.

"Well," Buck said, "it don't make me happy to say this, what with Simon and all. But we gotta end him. Can't leave him to tell SHIELD who we are."

"What makes you think I haven't already?" Coulson asked.

Chisholm scoffed. "Ain't no way you told them everyone who's involved, already," he said, "way I see it, most of us will be able to just disappear. C'mon, Clint, pick an arrow."

"Sure," Coulson said in kind, "go ahead, Barton, do his dirty work. Someone will ID your arrow, I'm sure."

"So what?" Barton said, pulling an arrow out of his quiver and setting it to the string of his bow.

"Well, it's your choice," Coulson replied, "but you're giving up the only family you got. You can still walk away. No way I can talk you out of this?"

"Nope," Barton said, pulling back and aiming at Coulson's head. It looked for all the world like the arrow was going to go directly into his left eye.

Coulson made a show of taking a shaking, deep breath. That last amount of movement was just enough. He felt the rope on his hand snap and go slack. "Then do it," he told Barton, "I'm ready."

Barton paused for a long moment. No one in the tent moved or even seemed to breathe. The fingers on Barton's drawing hand tensed and for just an instant Coulson could see a flash of horrible, soul-drowning pain in Barton's eyes.

The arrow loosed. A sharp slash blossomed across Coulson's left cheek, like a paper cut. There was a thump and a scream from somewhere behind him, one of the other goons. In one smooth movement, Coulson pulled his hand free of the rope and felt the other bindings fall away. His other hand came free last and as it did, Coulson rolled to his feet and swung the chair around into the nearest goon.

Chaos exploded in the tent. The goon that Coulson had hit careened into one of the feed crates and then was still. The goon that Barton had shot was screaming, desperately trying to pull the arrow out of his shoulder. Chisholm and the rest of the goons made for Coulson and Barton, brandishing their various weapons.

Coulson grabbed onto the guy with the baseball bat, planting his knee just next to the goon's. He weaved aside of the swinging baseball bat and pulled on the guy's shoulder, sending him tumbling headfirst into one of the crates of ore. The agent ducked another fist that was flying at him and retrieved the baseball bat. The next guy who took a swing at him found the bat jammed in under his arm and suddenly pushing him forward. With a crack, the goon's arm was dislocated and he was deposited on the floor.

"Go!" Coulson shouted to Barton.

Barton gave a wild-eyed nod and then ran past Coulson and out the tent flap.

"You little bastard!" Chisholm shouted. From the top of one of the crates, he grabbed his own bow and arrows and took off after Barton. Coulson was too busy with the three remaining goons to do anything to stop him.

* * *

Clint heard Buck's feet pounding on the ground after him. He didn't dare look back. He didn't want to see the look in Buck's eyes; no doubt one of betrayal and rage.

As fast as he could manage, Clint made for the games section of the carnival. He pushed past several people, maybe even knocked one or two over. The crowd began to swirl in a bit of confused panic.

"Clint!" Buck's voice roared over the crowd. Then the crowd began to scream and were scattering for cover. Clint did the same, ducking behind one of the booths just before hearing a thunk in another a little ways beyond.

Clint's heart pounded in his chest as he ducked between the game booths, still hearing the enraged Buck on his tail. He couldn't believe he was doing this again. A friend, a mentor, was chasing him and trying to kill him, again! And this time, no one would care if he wound up in the hospital. No one would give one damn.

For a moment, Clint thought about just stopping, letting Buck find him and letting Buck's arrow find its mark.

Instinct had other plans, fortunately. A twang and a whistle triggered a reflex and Clint ducked through the nearest tent flap, Buck's arrow finding only air.

It was one of the back entrances to the carnival's fun house. Clint found himself face to face with his own reflection. He turned and found it in several other places; the mirror maze.

Hearing footsteps outside the tent, Clint took off through the maze in the direction he figured would give him the most options. Turning a corner, he found himself looking at his own reflection again. And then an arrow landed in his reflection's forehead, shattering the mirror.

"I'm gonna kill you, ya little traitor!" Buck roared, his voice echoing off the mirrored walls.

Clint was in motion again, ducking behind the walls desperately. He skidded to a halt when he came face-to-face with Buck and he lashed out with his bow to hit him in the face only to find a sudden hail of shattering glass. He rolled to the side just as an arrow landed in the wall where the mirror had been. Weaving through the maze, he saw flashes of himself and flashes of Buck at several turns. Desperately, he loosed arrows at several of the reflections, causing a new hail of glass all around.

And then he found his own reflection was distorted, fat and short in one mirror, tall and thin in another. He turned looking for a pathway and suddenly saw his father. Terror seized him and he found himself loosing an arrow only to have it shatter more glass. Horrified, Clint found he had shot his own distorted reflection.

He couldn't stop shaking. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think. He couldn't find the way through and he couldn't find the way out.

Suddenly, hands seized him from behind, pulling him away from the jumbled images. One hand was around his chest and the other covering his mouth. All thought and reason fled and he lashed out, trying to free himself from the grip, only to find it tighter.

"Shhh!" someone hissed in his ear. "You're all right! You're fine! It's Agent Coulson! You need to stop, you're giving away your position!"

Clint went slack and Coulson continued to whisper in his ear, somehow breaking through the haze, calming.

"All right, I'm going to let you go, but I need you to stay quiet. Understand?"

Clint gave a shaking nod and Coulson's hands loosened and released him. Clint's knees nearly gave way, but he managed to stay up and turned to look at Coulson. The agent then pulled him down into a crouch, one hand on his shoulder, demanding Clint's full focus.

"Okay, listen to me, you need to focus," Coulson said, "you're wasting ammo and leaving a trail for him to follow you. Never fire unless you're sure."

Still trying to get his breathing under control, Clint nodded.

"Where are ya, Clint?!" Buck's voice called out from somewhere a few walls away. "I'm gonna stick ya like a pig!"

Clint's head whipped around to find Buck, but Coulson moved his hand from Clint's shoulder to his head, forcing him to look back at the agent.

"Hey, hey! Eyes on me!" Coulson ordered. "Focus! Don't let him get to you. Stay quiet and stay close, and we'll get out of here, got it?"

Clint nodded again, swallowing the lump in his throat.

"All right, c'mon," Coulson said, turning toward the nearest pathway and pulling his gun from his shoulder holster. Clint followed him, keeping only a foot or so away from the agent as they moved.

They wound through the maze for a few minutes, Coulson leading the way and moving slowly. Every time Clint caught the merest glimmer of an image of Buck, Coulson's arm was already popping out, moving him back and out of the way until it was safe to move again.

"Gone to ground, huh?" Buck's voice called out. "Hiding like a little coward, now? Thought I taught you better'n that! Not gonna do you a lick ah good!"

An instant later, there was a thunk and a loud pop, like a firecracker on steroids. Clint felt the pressure from a shock wave move through the maze and a few mirrors nearby cracked.

"The hell was that?" Coulson whispered.

"He's got his trick arrows with him," Clint whispered back, "must have been one of his pyrotechnics."

"Yeah, that's probably a fair bet," Coulson said, motioning with his head toward a faint glow that was building in the direction from which the explosion had come. He led the way onward as the tent began to fill with the smell of smoke. A moment later, there was another whump that vibrated the air and cracked some more glass around them.

"God! He's gonna burn the place down!" Clint exclaimed as they continued moving. It was starting to get warm and more light was growing around them. From somewhere above, Clint saw a sudden flare. Looking toward it, he saw just above the top of a nearby mirror one of the tent's tension ropes catching fire. "Uh, Coulson..."

Coulson's head snapped around to look and saw the flame just as the rope snapped. A support stanchion began to tilt toward them and fell into one of the maze walls, sending it toppling.

"Move!" Coulson shouted, tackling Clint to the side of the wall and its looking-glass burden. Like dominoes, several more maze walls were taken down with it, fanning the flames and sending glass spraying in several directions.

An arrow stuck itself into the ground between two of Clint's fingers, just giving a sting to the little web of skin there. Clint yelped and found Coulson dragging him back to his feet. A moment later and there was a report from Coulson's weapon.

"Go! Go! Go!" the agent shouted, pushing Clint along and firing off a couple more shots from his gun.

Somewhere on the other side of the tent, another stanchion gave way and toppled more of the maze walls. Clint was a few yards in front of Coulson now as the canvas of the tent began to flutter down toward them and catch fire. As he was dodging flaming tongues of falling rope and flying shards of glass, something fell on to him from the side, knocking him to the ground and pinning him beneath it. He saw stars for a moment and coughed in the thickening smoke, trying to find a way out from under the maze wall that was now holding him.

"No more running, Clint," Buck's voice came from only a stone's throw away. He looked up and saw Buck standing amid the flames and broken glass, drawing a bead with his bow.

Footsteps charged toward him, accompanied by the sound of more gunfire. Coulson materialized near Clint and Buck ducked away and went back in motion to avoid the sudden bullets.

And then, none of that mattered. The entire situation changed in an instant.

Out of the swirling smoke and scorching flames, a woman dressed in black faded into existence behind Buck. For an instant, Clint thought the woman's head was on fire and then he realized that it was her flame-red hair. She grabbed Buck around the chest and pressed a fist to his neck. There was a blue-white spark and then Buck went limp. A moment later and both of them disappeared into the smoke. It had all happened within a single breath.

Before either Clint or Coulson could react, another tent stanchion gave way, sending the tent falling down into the space where Buck had been. It immediately kindled and burst into flames. There would be no following.

Not that he would have been able to, anyway. Clint was still pinned under the maze wall. Coulson was above him, doing what he could to keep cinders from falling into his face. Clint pushed on the maze wall, but it would not move.

"It won't come off!" he shouted around a cough. The smoke was beginning to choke them both.

"There are more on top of this one!" Coulson replied in kind, pulling a handkerchief out of a pocket and pressing it over Clint's nose and mouth. "Don't move!"

"Funny guy!" Clint bit back, sarcastically.

Coulson disappeared out of Clint's sight. The general din of rapidly disintegrating tent drowned out any sign of Coulson's efforts. Clint coughed into the handkerchief as the smoke thickened further and the temperature climbed. Breathing was difficult and the world began to swirl a little. Clint thought about just letting his eyes drift closed. He was just about to when something thick and metal slipped under the edge of the maze wall, next to him.

Coulson had returned and had the long pipe of one of the fallen tent support beams in hand. Clint could feel heat coming off of it and Coulson was holding on to the other end, his tie wrapped around one hand and another handkerchief wrapped around the other. Using the end of the pipe that was under the maze wall as a fulcrum, Coulson pushed up on the pipe and Clint felt part of the weight of the maze wall ease off of him.

"C'mon, push!" Coulson encouraged him.

Clint slammed his palms into the edge of the maze wall and pushed upward on it, lending just a little more strength to Coulson's effort. As soon as Clint felt the weight come off him enough, he wriggled out, tiny shards of glass scraping him as he went.

As soon as he was clear, Coulson released the pipe, letting the wall crash back to the ground. He grabbed Clint by the arm and hauled him up, pushing the handkerchief back over his face. Blindly, they stumbled together in the direction of an air current, hoping that it meant a way out of the inferno. Finally, after dodging scalding bits of burning canvas and crackling wood, they found their way to cool, fresh air.

The carnival was a scene of utter chaos. Several of the carnies were trying to throw water on the flames and get the carnival's animals to safety. Somewhere in the distance, in town, sirens could be heard. Someone came forward to guide Clint and Coulson away from the burning remains of the fun house tent. Clint found himself deposited on a bench in the food cart area, still coughing smoke out of his lungs and greedily sucking in gulps of air. He saw Coulson push assistance away and then he disappeared into the milling crowd.

Clint was alone again. And once again, he was watching what remained of his world burning down around him.

* * *

Coulson made his way back to the feed storage tent, hoping that fire had not spread that far yet. He had seen Chisholm's buyer amid the fire, watched her whisk him away. He could only hope against all hope that she had not also whisked away the gamma ore. If it wasn't still there, Fury was going to have him stuffed and mounted as a reminder to all other SHIELD agents that they had better follow orders and secure the top priority. Even if the ore was there, once Coulson filed his report, Fury was probably going to yell at him for leaving it and running off to save the kid.

 _Let him_ , Coulson decided, _it was the right call, either way_.

He skidded in the gravel around the last corner and into the tent. The goons he had taken out were still there, unconscious, sprawled out on the ground and over crates and among piles of spilled feed.

To his utter relief, the crates of ore were still right where he had left them. He popped them open and found the shielded metal boxes still inside. With a relieved sigh, he closed the crate again and sagged against it in exhaustion. He looked at his watch. May would be there in another hour or so. Then he could deal with all this. Until then, he decided, he was just going to stay sitting right there.

* * *

The next day, Carson's Carnival was closed.

The carnies were all licking their wounds and wondering what was going to happen next. It was apparent to just about everyone that the Carnival was likely finished. Between the damage done by the fire and revelation that so many of the carnies had been involved with Chisholm's little side business, they didn't have very much to make a show out of any more.

Coulson wandered through the carnival's ruin, seeing so many of the remaining carnies - the ones that were not under arrest or being held by the newly arrived SHIELD team - drifting about like zombies and trying to clean up what could be salvaged. Some of the volunteer firefighters from the town of Mason were still on hand to put out the last few hot spots make sure the area was safe.

He had already sent May on her way back to the Triskelion with the gamma ore. He didn't want it out in the field any longer than absolutely necessary. Fury had agreed with that assessment and had expedited a flight to come and pick it up. Coulson remained behind to give instructions to the team on site and transfer the rest of the investigation to them.

He had one other piece of business to attend to. Armed with a folder of records that resembled more of a scrapbook than an actual file, Coulson went seeking Clint Barton. But the kid was no where in sight. After a while, he came across an exhausted-looking Marcella Carson, sitting on the bottom stair of her office trailer with a long-cold cup of coffee. He wandered over to her and sat down next to her.

"I'm sorry about what happened," he said, sincerely.

Marcella shook her head, not meeting his gaze. "I was an idiot," she said, "I had no idea what was taking place right under my nose, this whole time. I thought we were a family. Turns out I was just getting used."

"Only by some," Coulson said, "and they've been rooted out, now. The rest, the ones who choose to stay and rebuild, they're your family."

Marcella gave a bitter laugh. "Can any of us stay, after this? Half our equipment needs to be replaced after the fire. It was a miracle that the big top didn't catch and we lost a couple of animals. With everything we have to replace, we won't be able to afford travel to our next venue."

"Maybe it's time to think about a change in format," Coulson suggested, "maybe Carson's Carnival should find a place to settle down, become one of those permanent ones you were talking about. That stability. It might attract some new blood, replace the bad blood. And you could be one of the places where individual traveling acts could come to year after year, be someone's home away from home."

"That does have a certain appeal," Marcella admitted with a sigh, "just not sure how to go about it."

Coulson pulled a piece of paper from out of the folder he was carrying. "I thought you could use a hand," he said, handing it to her, "I made some calls back home. Got some names of circus-friendly realtors and renters that the Ringling Brothers' Circus had heard from, wondering if they were going to expand out of Baraboo. One of them might have something for you."

"This the sort of thing SHIELD normally looks into?" Marcella asked, taking the paper and skimming over the information there.

"Nah," said Coulson, "just thought it would be a decent gesture. I kinda feel like I plowed your carnival under."

"No, Phil, you didn't cause this," Marcella said with a sigh, "this has been coming for a long time. Jacques was a warning shot. Buck was just the killing blow. This would have gone out of control one way or another, whether you came here or not. Did your people ever find Buck?"

"No," Coulson replied with a grim sigh, "his buyer seems to have taken an interest in keeping him in their pocket. Truth be told, I'm not sure if any punishment we could give him would be any worse. But he'll be on SHIELD's watch list from now on."

"Hmmph, he made his own bed," Marcella ground out, "he shows up at my carnival again, I'll have him strung up by his toes until I can get the cops to come. I might even let some of the others use him as a pinata for a while."

"No candy coming out of there."

"No, but it would be really satisfying." She shook her head, looking back down at her cold coffee. "Poor Clint. How that kid keeps going on in spite of everything that's happened to him, everything that _keeps_ happening to him, I'll never know."

"Actually, I'm looking for him," Coulson said, "something I wanted to talk to him about."

"You gonna take him with you when you go?" she asked.

"I'm going to offer, yes," Coulson replied.

"Good," Marcella affirmed, "he's better than any of us. The crap he's gone through in life... it's been getting him ready for greater things. The kinda stuff normal people can't do. Just make sure you look out for him."

"It's a promise," Coulson replied.

With a faint smile, Marcella nodded her thanks. "I think I saw him headed toward the big top earlier. He likes to unwind on the trapeze when the place is empty."

"Thank you," Coulson said, getting back to his feet.

"And thank you too, Phil," Marcella said, "for looking out for my family."

Coulson gave a small smile and a nod, and then turned and made his way to the big top.

Pushing back the tent flap, he looked inside and at first blush, it looked like the tent was empty. But Coulson knew better. He looked upward and found his mark, sitting on one of the trapeze swings and staring off into space. Coulson gave a sad smile, recognizing the expression; hopelessness, uselessness. Clint Barton was reaching the end of his rope.

Coulson made his way over to the ladder and went up, sitting on the trapeze platform directly in front of Clint. The kid hadn't even moved or looked up as Coulson had made his way up.

"Nice view of the crowds up here," he said, casually.

"Yeah," Clint said with a sigh, "it was. Won't be again, though."

"So I hear," Coulson replied. There was another long pause and Coulson chose to fill it. "Found out it's your birthday, by the way. So, you know... happy eighteenth."

"It sucks," Clint said, "just like the other seventeen."

"So I've been reading," Coulson replied, holding up his folder, "you've been dealt a long string of bad hands. Father was a drunk bastard with a history of hitting his wife and got both of them killed drunk driving. Foster system treated you and your brother like garbage until you both ran away. Given what was uncovered about the child-beating bastard later, it doesn't take a genius to figure out why. Your first mentor turned out to be a thief and tried to kill you and your brother walked out on you at the same time. And now... this."

Clint gave a sigh and finally looked up to Coulson with a glare. "There a point to this, Very Special Agent Coulson? Or are you just trying to remind me that I am and always have been screwed?"

Coulson shrugged. "Just wondering what your plan is," he said.

Clint gave a disgusted chuckle, rolling his eyes skyward and then looking down. "As if I've got one."

There was another long silence between then. Coulson followed Clint's gaze all the way to the ground, then looked back up to study him for a moment.

"Wishing that net wasn't there?" Coulson asked.

Clint shook his head slowly, still not looking up. "No," he said, "glad it is. If it wasn't, I just might do it."

"Well, I'm glad _that's_ not your plan, anyway," Coulson replied.

Clint gave a sigh and leaned back, wrapping his feet around the wires holding up the trapeze bar. He hung upside down, letting his arms dangle, his back now turned to Coulson. "Not that it's any of your damned business," he said.

"And what if I made it my business?" Coulson asked.

"I'd tell you to go to hell."

"Well, I'm making it my business."

"Then go to hell."

"I've already been," said Coulson, "it's called Ethiopia." Clint didn't respond to that at all. "I'm serious, Barton. I'm here to offer you a better hand. Maybe even a plan. Certainly, something better than swinging from a trapeze, moping, and being glad there's a net."

"I'm not moping," Clint countered.

"Yeah? What would you call it?"

"Pondering."

"Fine," said Coulson, "then ponder this. SHIELD could use you. You're fast and agile and a fantastic acrobat. Your stealth isn't bad either. And you're the best marksman I've ever seen. And you can bank on that because I've seen a lot of people who do not suck. Hell, my score is one of SHIELD's highest and you'd blow me out of the water with your eyes closed."

"I'm no one's charity case."

"I'm not offering that," Coulson replied, "SHIELD would work you, hard. We don't keep people we can't use. A little time and training, you could be one of the best we've ever seen."

Clint swung his arms, setting the trapeze in motion. When it reached the highest point of its swing, he let go with his feet and flipped, grabbing the bar with his hands and easily slipped back onto the bar like it was the seat of a swing. His eyes rested on Coulson as the trapeze began to lose momentum, its swing decreasing with each pass.

"And just what the hell makes you think I'm worth all that?" Clint asked. "I'm really supposed to believe that you see the garbage that _everyone else_ has dumped is some kinda diamond in the rough? You are out of your futzing mind, Coulson!"

"You saved my ass last night," Coulson replied, "and it would have been a lot easier for you to put an arrow in my head right along side Chisholm and then continued on with the status quo, here."

Clint scoffed at this. "So I choose not to be a murderer and suddenly I'm a saint? I don't think so."

"No, more than that," Coulson continued, holding up his folder again, "it's how you've reacted to all of this, all the bad hands you've been dealt. Any other man might have given in, turned thief or killer or smuggler. But not you. Every single time, you've chosen to be a better man. All this bullshit around you and somehow, you've come through it all still trying to do the right thing, still hanging on by your fingernails to do it. No matter how many punches life throws at you, you still choose to do the right thing. That says a lot about a man. And that's the kind of person SHIELD needs."

Clint looked upward again, another scoff on his lips. But there was something thoughtful in his eyes. Coulson was getting through to him. "You realize that everyone I've ever supposed to have been able to count on has beat me up, tossed me aside, walked away, or tried to kill me! I'm supposed to believe that SHIELD is different? I'm supposed to believe that _you're_ different?"

"Yeah."

"Why should I?"

Coulson shook his head with a grimace. "I don't have any ulterior motives," he said after a pause, "you say no, then that's that. It's no skin off my nose and life goes on for me and for SHIELD the same as it always has. But, you say yes, SHIELD gets one hell of a good asset. And I get to work with one of the most gifted people I've met in a long time. It's just icing on the cake that you're actually one of the good guys."

Clint looked away again, leaning his head against one of the wires holding up the bar. He didn't seem to have anything to say, so Coulson pressed on the last thing he realized must have been bothering the kid.

"And you _are_ one of the good guys, Clint," he continued, "no matter what anyone ever says to you or does to you, no matter how many times they drag you through the mud, they can't take that. You come with me, you can make something of that. It won't be easy. And it sure as hell won't be fun. But I'm offering you a chance to take control of your life and become a... a part of something greater."

Clint still didn't look back to him. The trapeze was just barely swinging now, coming to a rest. There was another long, slow moment of silence and Coulson could swear he heard a barely suppressed sob from Clint. Coulson stood up on the platform, holding on to the ladder with one hand and holding out his other toward Clint.

"All you gotta do right now is come with me. Just give the rest of the world one more chance and I promise, you won't regret it."

There was still no movement from Clint. He seemed to be shaking, just a little. Coulson would have missed it if he hadn't been trained to read body language. The kid was terrified; of what would happen if he accepted and what would happen if he didn't.

With a sigh, Coulson dropped the hand that he was holding out. "Well," he said, beginning to climb back down the ladder, "I've got a few more things to wrap up here. I leave in an hour or so. Just think about it for a bit." He reached the ground and still Clint had not moved. "But not too long," he said as he began to make his way to the tent entrance. He was just reaching for the flap when Clint's voice floated to him out of the air.

"Coulson," the kid called, still sounding shaky. The agent turned back to look up at him and found that he still hadn't moved. "You really think I can do it? Be a part of something that isn't a shit-hole nightmare?"

"Without reservation," Coulson replied.

Yet another agonizing silence followed. Then, Clint sighed, sitting up again and looking up to the top of the tent. Then, he leaned back, his arms all the way extended.

And then, Clint let go and fell spread-eagle to the net below. He bounced up into a flip and landed on his feet to tumble toward the edge of the net. He flipped off the edge and landed on the ground perfectly on his feet.

"I'll be a pain in the ass every step of the way," Clint warned, walking toward Coulson.

"Dealt with worse," Coulson said with a shrug.

"And don't expect gratitude, because _you_ asked for _me_."

Coulson scoffed. "You kidding? I'm going to work your ass. You don't call me a bastard six times a day and I won't be doing my job."

Was that actually a smile Clint was trying to hide? Coulson couldn't help it; he grinned.

"I don't know how, Coulson," Clint said, "but somehow... I got just enough left in me to give it a shot."

"Then we'll work with that," Coulson replied, still grinning, "go pack your bag. One hour, I'll be at your trailer. You're not ready, it's up to you to catch up."

Clint gave a nod and Coulson turned and left the tent. He lingered outside the flap for a moment, just long enough to hear Clint's quick, running footsteps on the gravel within as he made for the backstage entrance and the shortest path to his trailer.


	6. Epilogue

_Janurary 10th, 1989  
SHIELD Base Triskelion, Washington DC_

"This was not what I had in mind when I told you that the kid wasn't the priority, Coulson!"

If it was possible for the veins in Fury's neck to stick out any further, Coulson didn't want to know. He didn't have much choice but to stand there and take the tongue lashing. He hadn't told anyone about his plan for Barton and had made the call to recruit him on his own, in the field. He expected this reaction.

"Yes, sir," Coulson acknowledged.

"What on God's green Earth has gotten into you?" Fury roared. "I send you to recover dangerous contraband and you come back with an eighteen-year-old circus punk!"

"And the dangerous contraband, sir," Coulson added.

"Did I say it was time to give me lip?"

"No, sir," Coulson replied, fighting hard to keep the corners of his mouth from twitching up.

"Just where do you get off bringin' in a recruit without even getting permission to do the recruiting? You know full well that's not anywhere in SHIELD SOP. So please tell me where you got the crazy notion that it's a good idea!"

Coulson held his tongue. He had been ordered not to give any lip, after all.

Fury gave a resigned sigh, folding his arms across his chest. "It was me, wasn't it?"

Still, Coulson didn't say anything. Only gave an acknowledging shrug.

Fury tossed his hands up and made his way back to the chair behind his desk. "All right, go," he said, flopping into it and waving a hand. "Lip away."

"Barton's marksmanship is off the charts," Coulson said, "and he's got a natural talent for stealth and undercover work, both of which I experienced first hand. If he can trick someone who's known him for years without any training, imagine what he can do _with_ some."

"Okay, you got my attention," Fury allowed, "but that doesn't explain why you had to take two days to drive back from Texas with the kid instead of taking a three-hour flight out of Houston."

"Barton has trust issues," Coulson stated, "not too surprising, given his background. Wanted to take some time for him to get comfortable with the idea and get to know SHIELD _without_ a life-destroying crisis happening all around him."

"Sounds to me like you've already decided on a plan for him," Fury stated, suspiciously.

"It's my recommendation that his training isn't through SHIELD Academy, as normal," said Coulson.

"Why? From the way you're goin' on, it sounds like he would stride through Operations breaking records like he's bustin' through paper."

"It's not the skill training that's the problem," Coulson said, "it's the interpersonal training. Everyone he's ever supposed to have been able to trust has tossed him aside or worse. He needs to know that he can trust the rest of SHIELD or it's not going to work out."

"What, exactly, did you have in mind?" Fury asked.

"Place him with an SO to begin with. Give him a bridge between him and the rest of SHIELD. Someone who can focus on his training and introduce him to the rest of SHIELD in the way he needs."

Fury considered this for a moment, flipping through the assessment file Coulson had handed him. The moment stretched on long and for a moment Coulson was worried that Fury was going to toss him out of his office and toss Barton out on his ass.

"Well, then, based on the assessment of the recruiting agent," Fury said at last, "that is the method of training that I am endorsing. But, the final word is down to Director Carter. I'm not officially the Director yet. She's just letting me make the big decisions more and more. But I doubt she'll disagree."

"In that case, sir," Coulson said, reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out a piece of paper that he unfolded and handed to Fury, "I have a list of potential agents that I think would be a good match as an SO for Barton."

Fury took the paper and gave it a cursory glance, then he crumpled it up and tossed it into the waste basket. "Nope," he said, "I have someone else in mind."

"Sir?"

Fury pointed at Coulson.

"Sir, you know I'm only a level five agent. Supervising Officers are required to be level six or above."

"Hell, Coulson, I'm getting a promotion," Fury replied, opening a desk drawer and pulling out a binder that he slid across to Coulson, "I see no reason not to spread around the love a little. Welcome to level six. A worse punishment for your actions on this mission I can't come up with."

Coulson reached for the binder with a confused look on his face. This, he had not expected. Not in the slightest.

"Now," Fury continued, getting back up from his chair again and making his way to the office door, "let's meet this wonderkind of yours."

Fury was first through the door out into the spacious waiting area outside of his office, Coulson hot on his heels. Barton was there, sitting in the black leather couch and his feet up on the coffee table, absently paging through a magazine on motorcycles. He looked up when they came in the room.

Fury looked at Barton for a long moment. For his part, Barton looked up at the one-eyed-almost-Director of SHIELD with a look of trepidation. He seemed surprised into a sort of paralysis by the gaze. Fury turned his attention back to Coulson.

"Coulson," he said, "does your new recruit have his boots on my coffee table?"

"Looks like, sir," Coulson replied.

This seemed to galvanize Barton into action. He jumped out of the couch, tossing the magazine back on the table. It skidded off the side and fell on the floor and he hastily picked it up and set it on the table again.

Fury's one eye looked back and forth between Coulson and Barton. "You two deserve each other. Get started."

With that, Fury went back into his office and closed the door behind him.

Coulson and Barton both stared at the closed door for a long moment, an awkward silence settling over them.

"So, what does he mean by that?" Barton asked tentatively.

"It means I'm your new Supervising Officer, in charge of your training," Coulson said, then turned toward the exit out to the hallway, "c'mon."

"Wha... where are we going?" Barton asked, rushing to catch up. "Like, paperwork and stuff?"

"We'll start on that tomorrow," Coulson replied, "we're taking some time to relax for the rest of the day. How are you with cars?"

"Cars?"

"Yeah. Restoring them, maintaining them, general tinkering."

"Guess I never really thought about it. Why?"

"We're going down to the garage," Coulson replied, "I'm gonna introduce you to Lola."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, everyone. This concludes part one. I've got a couple of other stories in mind, but it seemed better to split them up rather than keep going with one, obscenely long story that was clearly more than one story. I'm going to get to work on part two, if it will finish gelling together.
> 
> In the meantime, if you want more of a peek into my headcanon, check out "Out in the Cold." It's my take on what Clint was doing during Captain America: The Winter Solider. It has some small hints about what might be happening in part two of SHIELD Origins: Hawkeye.
> 
> Until later!


End file.
